


Star Wars Episode II: The Shadow Within

by GoodHunterAnais, Slippin_Jimmy



Series: The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst/Fun/Action/Politics/All the Other Moods You'd Expect from a Prequel Rewrite, Book length, Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 217,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodHunterAnais/pseuds/GoodHunterAnais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slippin_Jimmy/pseuds/Slippin_Jimmy
Summary: From the floating platforms of Serenno to the halls of Theed Palace, the Clone Wars rage throughout the galaxy. As the Sith rise and the Jedi to meet them, light and darkness collide across the stars . . . and within Anakin Skywalker. (Part 2 ofThe Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times. Updates weekly on Mondays!)





	1. First Things

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the second installment of _The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times_ , our rewrite of the Star Wars prequel trilogy!
> 
> Returning readers, we're so pleased to have you back. New readers, we strongly recommend that you read the first volume of this trilogy, _Star Wars Episode I: The Looming Force_ , before proceeding onward with _The Shadow Within_. While broad aspects of the universe remain the same, you'll find that characters and situations are very different from their movie counterparts. Also recommended, although not necessary, is _Fragments: Part One_ , a series of short one-shot fics that bridge the gap between the two episodes.
> 
> We'll be updating daily for our first several chapters, before slowing down to twice-weekly chapters every Monday and Thursday. That said, without further ado, enjoy _Star Wars Episode II: The Shadow Within_!

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . . .

 

_STAR WARS_

_Episode II_

_THE SHADOW WITHIN_

The galaxy has been torn in two. The CONFEDERACY OF INDEPENDENT SYSTEMS, a former terrorist group now backed by a board of corporate leaders, will not rest until it has seized control of every civilized world from the Galactic Republic.  
  
The separatist movement grows bolder by the day. Hit-and-run attacks on outlying star systems have grown into coordinated campaigns against major worlds. As the war drags on, independent systems find themselves forced to take sides, either turning over assets to the hungry Confederate war machine or trusting in the Republic’s defense.  
  
Rumors spread that even the Jedi, mysterious guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy, are spread thin in an attempt to deal with the ever-expanding conflict. Though those who believe look to them for hope, the Order are increasingly strained in their ability to protect the citizens of the Republic and beyond. Planet to planet, sun to sun, the CLONE WARS have found their way to every corner of the galaxy . . . .

 

* * *

 

Cradled by the pinpoint light of hundreds of distant stars, a blue and green sphere floated through the infinite black of space. The garden world’s continents of forest green and earthy brown were set into crystal blue oceans; wisps of white streaked across the atmosphere, trailing from the planet’s equator all the way to its jagged polar ice caps. City lights shone brilliantly on the half of the world that was cloaked in darkness—hues of sunset danced along the vertical line separating day and night.

It would have looked like something from a galactic tourism poster, were it not for the targeting overlay bracketing the globe’s image.

A longing sigh escaped the mouth of Lieutenant Nalus as he enjoyed one last look at the world pictured on the viewscreen. Blinking twice, the spacesuit-clad human shoved his targeting computer display out of the way and returned his hands to the control yoke of his starfighter.

Nalus was nestled in the most cramped space he’d ever been in—the transparisteel sphere of a Confederacy tri-fighter. The globe-shaped cockpit of the craft was surrounded by three curved arms spaced equally apart, each housing an engine at the rear and a blaster cannon at the tip. The sphere, mounted in the center, was capable of freely rotating within the three-arm housing of the tri-fighter—though Nalus found the gyroscopic cockpit disorienting, and had chosen to turn the feature off the moment he’d sat in the pilot’s chair. He found flying with the cockpit locked in place to be far more comfortable—a small mercy, considering the fighter was designed for everything but comfort.

The CIS had built the craft for clone pilots—the skull-faced math genius Givins, mostly—but something his superiors would only refer to as a “staffing issue” had seen Nalus jumping into the cockpit of one of the tri-fighters. He had been told he would be given command of the Confederacy’s Hades Squadron. Upon his arrival in the fighter launch hanger, however, he’d been greeted with slightly different news. They were to launch as a scouting party—a single flight of three fighters—and make a short hyperspace jump to the world of Paalnet.

 _Three goddamn starfighters,_ he thought to himself as he stared at the idyllic planet before him. _How are we supposed to capture this place with three fighters?_

Nalus knew better than to think that was the extent of the plan. It was practically a certainty that some form of backup would show up once they’d broken into the atmosphere—but the fact he was being kept in the dark gnawed at the back of his mind. The clones followed orders as they received them, never asking for a bigger picture. He wanted to know _why_ they were doing this this way, but his superiors had given him instructions as if he was nothing more than a damn wetwork.

 _Doesn’t matter,_ he scolded himself. He was getting to the battlefield first, and that meant an opportunity to shoot down some Republic scum before anyone else. He reached up and toggled his cockpit comm on. “Fighters, form up on me,” the lieutenant said, putting on his best squadron leader voice. “Make a full burn for the atmosphere on my mark. . . now.”

  


* * *

 

Whipping her LAAT into a tight enough turn that the port gunner could bring his laser pod to bear, Lianna whooped. “It’s a _good_ day, folks!”

“ _Will you shut up and steer?_ ” said gunner, Yllef, snapped back. “ _You’re gonna crash us before the battle even starts._ ”

Though she knew he couldn’t see it, Lianna stuck out her tongue and deliberately dipped the gunship just a _hair_ lower, hovering a few feet above the tree line. Running patrols on a jungle planet wasn’t the most thrilling job for a pilot—she’d take her excitement where she could get it.

The scenery was nice, anyway, she had to admit. Paalnet’s planetary rainforest was soaked to the core with moisture, the trees shining a constant, vibrant green. It was almost like flying above clusters of organic jewels, their peace disturbed every now and then by a nighthawk zipping up into the sky before diving back down. The lone breach in this canopy for miles and miles was the capital city of Lapis, whose spires reached juuuust higher than the forest’s tallest specimens, as if the people who’d built it had something to prove. It was an eyesore, but an eyesore than Lianna and her fellow gunships had been tasked with watching—if the CIS came knocking on this planet’s door, the rest of the hyperlane’s gatekeepers were sure to follow.

And the knock on the door had just sounded.

Swearing, her port gunner snapped off a beam of emerald laser fire, shearing the top off one of the trees and missing the clone bogey entirely. “Aren’t those, like, legally protected?” Lianna asked over her comm. “You’re gonna get slapped with a fine when we get back to base.”

“ _Bite me. Those things are_ fast _._ ”

“Well, we’ll just have to show _them_ fast,” the pilot said, pushing forward on the throttle. “Let’s see if we can get close enough for a missile lock.”

This was one of three scout fliers that had entered Paalnet’s atmosphere out of nowhere a few minutes ago, breaking their formation and hurtling off in separate directions as soon as the Republic LAATs had spotted them. Lianna, who’d spent the previous hour idly watching for nighthawks, had taken a few moments to even be sure this was real. Once sureness had slipped over her, she’d started smiling and hadn’t yet stopped.

“ _Delta Base to Nighthawk 2,_ ” crackled over her comm. “ _How goes pursuit?_ ”

“He’s a quick little bastard, command, but we’ve got him. Any other ships waving hello up there?”

“ _We’ve got a few frigates, nothing the Venators up there shouldn’t be able to handle once they swing over from the moon. Stay focused, now._ ”

“Aww, but I want to hear about the space battle,” Lianna said over the local comm to her two gunners, then swapped back to the base channel. “Copy that, Delta Base,” she said, and tilted the LAAT enough for the starboard cannon to take a shot.

Starboard laser fired, missed by a hair. “ _If I didn’t know better,_ ” Lave, the starboard gunner, said, “ _I’d say you were making us miss on purpose._ ”

“Aww, Lave, you know me better than that.” Looking down at the red dot on her sensor screen, the pilot felt her smile turn into a satisfied smirk. “Buuut, now that you mention it, I do believe we’re close enough for a missile lock.” As she throttled forward harder, she flipped a switch on the control board, exposing the big red button she hadn’t yet used once outside of the simulators. “Let’s light ‘em up.”

As if overhearing this, the clone bogey made a sudden move, wrenching itself upward and back for the sky. Lianna centered her thumb over the missile launch control, said, “Dodge this,” and fired.

A few seconds later, shrapnel rained down on the trees.

Beaming, she switched back over to the general channel. “Delta Base, we’ve got one bogey down, changing course to help squadron mates—”

“ _Cut the chatter, Nighthawk 2!_ ” command snapped. “ _All units, REPEAT, we have a large object emerging from hyperspace. Does not appear to be a capital ship of any known origin. Energy signature suggests massive firepower._ Firebrand _,_ Vigliance _, give us a status update—_ ”

“ _Geez,_ ” Lave said over the local channel, “ _they sound worried._ ”

“Ahh, it’s nothing the fleet can’t handle,” Lianna said, twisting the LAAT to a new course. “Let’s go help Delta Leader out.”

The adrenaline coursing through her made everything seem just a bit brighter, more vibrant. The canopy’s green popped against the sky’s deep purple with almost painful beauty, and as the gunship finished its turn the glittering metal spires of Lapis came into view, shining with the light of the planet’s sun. Despite the sealed cockpit, Lianna swore she could feel a cool, sharp breeze washing over her face, refreshing it—

“ _Lianna,_ ” Yllef suddenly said, his normally irritated voice filled with an emotion the pilot couldn’t place. “ _What is THAT?_ ”

“What’s wh—” she began, but then she glanced upward and saw something at the edge of the sky.

All thoughts of the other bogeys forgotten, the pilot whipped the gunship upward, angling the viewport to better see what was happening above them. The purplish-blue sky had suddenly been filled with a new sun—a dazzling, painful-to-look-at spot of crimson that was almost like a wound of color opening above the planet. As Lianna stared, the gunship’s viewport polarizer dialing higher and higher to avoid damage to her eyes, that spot grew brighter and brighter.

“Um,” she said, a wave of overwhelming terror inexplicably welling in her voice, “Delta Base, what the hell am I seeing—”

Then everything blew apart.

One moment, Lianna was looking up at that cancerous spot of brightness in the sky—the next, the LAAT was flipping end over end, and everything had gone white, the viewport polarizer worse than useless, and both gunners were shouting at her through the local comm so that she couldn’t make out what either was saying. Over everything was a massive, unbearable _roar_ , as if some supernatural creature had torn into the rainforest without warning.

The LAAT whacked something _hard_ , and Lianna pulled up frantically on the stick, and finally the glare started to die out just enough that she was able to steer clear of the tree line. “Yllef, Lave, _report_!” she screamed.

“ _I’m okay, Lianna_ ,” Lave’s voice said through her earpiece, “ _but I think Yllef . . . well . . ._ ”

Sick, the pilot turned her head far enough to port to see a twisted flap of metal where the cannon used to be.

“ _Lianna—oh gods, Lianna, look._ ”

Still fighting to level the gunship, she dismissed this, staring down at the control stick in her hand. _We’ll go down and look for him, he probably ejected before it happened and now he’s sitting in the trees somewhere—_

“ _Lianna, LOOK._ ”

She forced herself to raise her head and look through the viewport.

What she saw obviously couldn’t be real.

Where the spires of Lapis had once stood, there was now—nothing. A crater in the ground the size of a whole city, ringed with burning trees where blast had set fire to the rainforest. Everywhere, nighthawks were rising into the sky, fleeing their nests in droves and flying for—what?

“Delta Base,” Lianna choked into her mic, checking and checking and checking again to make sure that she had the general channel open.

There was no response.

For the longest time, she simply kept the LAAT hovering, staring at the hole in the ground where five minutes ago a city full of millions had been. Lave said nothing; she said nothing. _It’s a horrible nightmare,_ a sizable part of her brain thought, _that’s all it really is._

Then her comm buzzed.

Relieved at this proof that her senses must have been lying to her, Lianna punched in her acceptance. “Delta Base, what is going _on_ out there—”

“ _All Republic forces, this is Vice Admiral Jast Derleth of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Your capital city has been destroyed, and our weapon will be ready to fire again within twenty minutes. You have that length of time to determine whether you wish to surrender. If you refuse, another city will be chosen for annihilation. I trust you will make your decision speedily._ ”

With that, the comm clicked off.

Lianna hovered. And watched. And hovered some more, her eyes flitting from nighthawk to nighthawk as they continued to rise into the sky.

Twenty minutes later, she stood down as she was ordered to.

 

* * *

 

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

Getting appointed the commander of a city-killing weapons platform seemed exciting on paper. In practice, Yill Forthos had found, it mostly entailed a lot of fiddling around at her command console and waiting for the higher-ups to assign her a target.

Sure, it had been lovely when they’d blown Lapis to kingdom come—even from orbit, the display of firepower had been awe-inspiring. Forthos still thought about it at odd times throughout the day—the flare of white light, the ring of burning trees visible from space, the stunned silence in the Republic commander’s voice when he communicated their surrender. Having such power at her fingertips, under her direct command, was . . . intoxicating.

But that had been months ago, and since then they’d had exactly two other targets, both of which surrendered as soon as they’d emerged into the planets’ gravity wells. Forthos _supposed_ that having two whole systems surrender without a shot being fired was impressive, but it wasn’t the right kind of impressive. Not after that first display.

“Ma’am.”

Idly, she turned to see an engineering ensign standing behind her. “Yes?”

“Maintenance on the port nacelles has finished ahead of schedule. Pleased to report that they’re now restored to full capacity.”

Nodding, then brushing at the strand of blonde hair that fell into her eyes with the motion, Forthos waved her hand. “Very good. Dismissed, ensign.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Well, that distraction had taken a good few seconds away from her day. Only several thousand left to go. Letting a small sigh escape—inaudibly, it wouldn’t be good to give her bridge crew the impression of boredom even if they were mostly clones—she turned back to the viewport, gazing out into the star-dotted blackness of space.

“Ma’am.”

The voice was just different enough for her to know she wasn’t suffering from deja vu—this was the communications chief, not an engineering crewmember. “Yes?” Forthos asked, without turning from the viewpoint—wouldn’t be worth the effort, most likely.

“We’re being hailed. The ship’s transponder isn’t CIS.”

A sudden flare of interest roused the commander, and she turned to look her comms chief in the eye. “Republic?”

The crewmember shook her head. “Seems to be a civilian craft.”

Forthos felt some of her intrigue start to dim—probably just a freighter that had wandered off course or something of that nature—but anything would be a welcome distraction from the nothingness that was her day. “Patch them through.”

After a few moments, a hiss of comms static emerged from the console. “Unidentified vessel,” Forthos said, straightening her posture and putting what she hoped was just the right commanding ring into her tone. “This is Commander Yill Forthos of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. What is your purpose in contacting us?”

The voice that emerged from the comm was curiously modulated—almost as though it were artificial rather than organic. “ _I’ve gone fishing lately, and I think I caught something the Confederacy might be interested in taking off my hands._ ”

Forthos frowned. “Specify.”

“ _With permission, I’d like to dock with your station. Once I have, we can talk business._ ”

“And what business do you have that could possibly interest us?”

The next sentence sent a thrill up Forthos’ back that was almost—almost—as good as the one she’d felt priming the startup sequence on the gun above Paalnet.

“ _I’ve brought you Kenobi and Skywalker._ ”

 

* * *

 

**_REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: LOW ALTITUDE ASSAULT TRANSPORT_ **

The Low Altitude Assault Transport, often referred to as a “LAAT gunship,” is an atmospheric troop and personnel transport vehicle used by the Republic Defense Force. Developed by Rothana Heavy Engineering, the vehicle is capable of ferrying two dozen passengers and carries mass-driver missile launchers and a nose-mounted laser cannon. Additional laser turrets can also be affixed to the outer hull of the transport.

Massive doors along each side of the carrier allow for quick entry and egress of passengers through a large opening nearly half the length of the ship itself. Pilots often fly their LAAT gunships with the doors open; to prevent those on board from falling out the side of the ship during aerial maneuvering, a LAAT is capable of generating its own weak gravity field.

Though the most commonly seen variant of the LAAT is an infantry transport, there also exists a cargo version of the vessel designed to carry armored walkers and cargo crates into battle. Additionally, Rothana Heavy Engineering briefly manufactured a fire and rescue variant of the LAAT and sold it to Coruscant Emergency Services. Though this variant of the vehicle is no longer available for purchase, the water-cannon equipped LAATs can still be seen ferrying firefighters and paramedics across the Republic’s capital world.


	2. Captive Masters

“I suppose it’s too much to ask if you’ll take us to the bridge to meet your commander in person?” Obi-Wan Kenobi asked as an armored hand hauled him down the brig’s narrow corridor.

“Yeah, we promise we’ll be nice,” echoed Anakin Skywalker, dragging his feet a step behind his master as another clone manhandled him along the hall.

“Shut up,” growled Obi-Wan’s guard, abruptly turning the Jedi by the shoulder to face a metal hatch. A moment later, it hissed open, revealing an extremely cramped cell made for one.

“I suppose the  _ Helios _ thing still hasn’t blown over yet,” his apprentice lamented. “Come on, guys, it was two years ago, he learned his lesson—”

As a sharp  _ whoof _ of escaping air cut off the rest of Anakin’s statement, presumably from an armored elbow slamming into his stomach, Obi-Wan’s guard hurled him into the cell. The Jedi swore as his cheek connected with the edge of the durasteel bench, then turned around just in time to see Anakin being shoved into his own cell.

Rubbing at his bearded jaw, the general winced. The plan definitely hadn’t involved him losing molars.

Standing as upright as the claustrophobic confines of the cell would allow, he shuffled over to the door and pressed his ear to the metal. Across the hall, he could dimly sense Anakin duplicating the maneuver. Now, if this were a  _ Republic _ brig, the cells would be soundproof, but even with their friendly corporate backers the CIS seemed to be continuing their old habit of buying on the cheap. Which meant that if Obi-Wan aligned his ear with the seam of his cell door just so, he could make out what was being said out in the brig’s hallway.

“Hand over the lightsabers,” said the clone who’d hurled Obi-Wan into the bench—or maybe the other one, it was rather hard to tell when their voices were identical.

“ _ DAMMIT, LIZ, _ ” Anakin bellowed loud enough to be heard through his hatch and across the hall, “ _ DON’T YOU DARE. _ ”

An electronic voice, one whose tone now carried for Obi-Wan the unshakeable association of scarlet eyes, shouted back: “You brought this on yourself, Skywalker, you might as well accept it.”

“He knows you?” one of the guards asked sharply. “By name?”

“We’ve got a past, it’s a long story. I’d tell you, but I don’t know if your attention span is capable of lasting that long,” the droid sniffed.

“Tell us the short version,” the other guard instructed. “Now.”

A metallic  _ clank, clank, clank _ seemed to indicate that Liz was now pacing back and forth across the deck. “Well, before I managed to escape a year ago and take up my current line of work,  _ that _ one”—she paused, presumably jerking a thumb toward Anakin’s cell—“owned me. I spent the entire time I was with him being taken apart for scrap. And then  _ that _ one”—the sound of her voice suggested she’d thrown her head in Obi-Wan’s direction—“convinced him to leave me on a burning planet for dead when you guys were invading.”

“Now, Liz,” Obi-Wan shouted, “that’s not fair and you know—”

“Shut the hell up, Kenobi!” she barked, and the Jedi saw a brighter flare of red in his mind’s eye. “It was just when I was beginning to  _ trust _ you—won’t be making that mistake again.”

The clanking footsteps stopped, and one of the clones spoke up. “So you’re an enemy of the Confederacy.”

“I’m an enemy of whoever’s trying to get me killed, buddy. Which is why I went after these two to claim the bounty you posted. Just don’t point anything at me.”

“ _ I BUILT you, _ ” Obi-Wan’s apprentice yelled from across the way.

“Did I  _ ask _ to be built?”

A sudden, resounding  _ WHAM _ of an armored fist slamming into a metal hatch sounded from Anakin’s side of the corridor, and the younger Jedi swore. Despite himself, Obi-Wan had to stifle a snort of laughter—it would seem he and his apprentice were now even as far as injuries went.

“You, quiet,” a clone directed. “And you, hand over the lightsabers.”

“No,” Liz sniffed. “The lightsabers stay with me until I’m paid.”

“Commander Forthos hasn’t confirmed that you  _ are _ being paid,” one of the clones replied. “Under the bylaws of the CIS, droids are not recognized as sovereign citizens and are incapable of—”

“Oh spare me,” Liz growled. “You guys were more fun when you were still mentally unstable.” 

“And you have no need for a Jedi weapon,” the other clone continued as though she hadn’t spoken. Shifting to prevent a cramp, Obi-Wan pressed his ear a bit harder to the metal door.

The droid produced a remarkably good imitation of a human’s scoff with her vocabulator. “What do  _ you _ know about needs? You grew up in a jar.” 

“ _ He’s right, Liz, _ ” Anakin shouted through his own cell door. “ _ So how ‘bout you just give it back? _ ”

A  _ clink _ of metal on metal just barely made it through the hatch and into Obi-Wan’s ear. “They’re  _ cool _ . If you’re not going to pay me, I keep these as compensation. Simple as that.”

The general felt a wave of alarm go through both clones, and sensed motion from each of them—raising blaster rifles, most likely.  _ Oh dear. _

As the click of blaster priming levers sounded, the clone voice nearest to Obi-Wan began, “Stand down or we will—”

The rest was consumed by a sudden  _ snap-HISSSS  _ and a wet, gurgling noise.

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan repeated, out loud this time, as a dual  _ thud _ that sounded very much like two corpses hitting the deck reverberated through his ears.

Moments later, a blue-white bar of plasma started carving into his cell.

 

* * *

 

The durasteel plate that had sequestered Anakin Skywalker inside his holding cell clattered to the floor of the cramped brig hallway. Ducking through the still-glowing opening, Anakin stood upright beside his droid and held a hand out, motioning for Liz to turn off his lightsaber and give it back. 

The droid’s scarlet eye lights seemed to narrow, but the blade of plasma disappeared into its hilt as she returned the weapon to its rightful owner. Across the hall, Anakin’s teacher caught sight of the floor and sighed, rubbing at his jaw. 

“Really, Liz?” the Jedi Master groaned, motioning to the two clones on the floor. Each officer sported a cauterized hole in his throat. “You didn’t have to do . . . that.”

The droid shrugged. “Bastards tried to rip me off. I might have let them live a little longer if they’d bothered to pay up.” Stretching out a metallic arm, she extended Obi-Wan’s lightsaber toward him. “Not that it would’ve mattered; everyone here will be dead soon anyway.” 

Obi-Wan snatched the saber out of Liz’s hands and glared at Anakin. The latter knew the look all too well—a mix of disbelief and disapproval. Skywalker just shrugged. “She’s got a point.” Crossing his arms, the younger Jedi leaned back against the brig corridor wall. To be fair, he thought, Obi-Wan was probably more disturbed at the possibility of Liz being able to execute people in the first place than anything else.

“So, Liz,” the general said after a moment’s silence, “did you figure out where we’re going next?”

“No, Kenobi,” the droid buzzed. “I spent the whole walk here just taking in the lovely scenery. The Confederacy’s really got an eye for space station interior decorating.” 

“Liz . . .”  Anakin shot a warning side-eye at his droid.  _ The last thing we’re doing is getting caught because we’re fighting with her. _

The robot’s eyes faded to a cool blue. “Sorry. I was indeed running a scan as we walked here, Mister Kenobi. I was able to construct a partial map of the station”—at this, Liz tapped an index finger against her metal skull—”and have pinpointed a possible destination.” She motioned with one arm toward the brig door. “If you would?” 

Obi-Wan gestured in a mirror of Liz’s motion. “Lead the way.” 

The trio strode towards the door at the end of the cell block, but as Liz reached out to open it, Anakin grabbed the droid’s arm. “Wait,” he whispered. On the other side of the wall, he could faintly sense one mind spread across the doorway, as if pieces of it were standing on each side.  _ More clone guards,  _ he thought.  _ Makes sense.  _

“I sense it too,” Obi-Wan whispered. “Nicely done, Anakin. You want to take this one?” 

“You’re better at it,” the younger Jedi replied. 

“Think of it as a practice opportunity, then?” Obi-Wan said, raising his eyebrows. 

Anakin grinned. “I’m not sure now is the best time for that, Master—”

“Hey, idiots!” Liz hissed, static spitting out of her vocabulator as her eyes snapped back to red. “We’re wasting time. Will one of you just do your stupid Jedi thing?”  

Anakin stepped back as his teacher moved closer toward the door. He watched Obi-Wan extend a hand toward the entry and allowed himself to feel the energy radiating from the Jedi Master’s fingertips, moving toward the clone sentries. He could practically see the connective fibers between Obi-Wan’s mind and the two identical brains outside the door growing stronger, intertwining. Then Obi-Wan snapped his fingers, and the glowing strands shattered. 

A distant  _ pop  _ echoed somewhere in the void. The sound wasn’t real, Anakin knew, but he’d been so tuned in to Obi-Wan’s mind trick that he—like the clones—had heard the auditory hallucination. 

“ _ What was that?”  _ Anakin heard one of the clones say, its voice muffled by the durasteel plate door.

“ _ Let’s go check it out,”  _ the other said. Then Anakin felt the identical minds moving, gliding away from their posts beside the cell bay entry.

_ That never gets old. _

When he sensed that the clones had moved a sufficient distance away, Anakin glanced over at Obi-Wan.

His instructor nodded. “Now!” he whispered sharply. As the door slid upward, the trio slinked out of it and darted down the hall, away from the clone guards that were walking in the opposite direction. 

“It’s the turbolift at the end of the hall,” Liz offered quietly as they scampered through the space station corridor. “We take it up three decks, then turn right. Go down the hall and take another turbolift—”

“One step at a time,” Anakin interrupted. “You’re the one with the map in your brain, just go and we’ll follow you.” 

“Well then,” Liz said as the group came to a stop in front of a pair of turbolift doors. “As I said”—the droid reached out and poked the call button for the turbolift—“it’s this turbolift at the end of the hall.”

As the trio stood and waited for the elevator, Anakin shuffled back and forth on his feet. He stared up at the panel of blinking lights above the turbolift door. Deck numbers pulsed in a steady rhythm on the panel as the turbolift descended toward them. Mumbling the numbers to himself as they flashed across the display, Anakin silently willed the turbolift to move just a little bit faster. 

Instead, it did the opposite. With only a handful of decks to go, the numbers stopped flashing. Presumably, so had the turbolift.  _ Oh crap.  _

“Uh, Obi-Wan?” 

The Jedi Master glanced over at Anakin and raised an eyebrow.

“The turbolift stopped.” 

“So? Someone’s getting off a couple decks above us.”

“Or someone’s getting  _ on _ .” 

Obi-Wan let out an exasperated sigh. Anakin could sense the dread welling up within his master. “Terrific. This is just off to a great start, isn’t it?” 

Anakin shuffled his feet once more, then planted them into place. Slowly, he reached his mechanical hand across his body and unclipped the lightsaber hilt from its place on his belt. “Yep. A great start.”

“I’ll just . . . stay out of the way,” Liz piped up, thumbing in the direction of the other turbolift door. “Let you two do your thing.” As metallic footfalls clanked against the deck, the deck numbers resumed flashing on the panel mounted above the elevators. 

The  _ snap-hiss  _ of two activating lightsabers drowned out the gentle  _ woosh  _ of an opening turbolift door.

 

* * *

 

David Renault’s eyes glazed over as he scanned the cargo manifest cradled in his right hand. Blinking twice to clear the haze in his vision, the uniformed officer sipped from his mug of caf and sighed deeply. He’d been up since 0500 hours ship time, with no end to his current task in sight.  _ Bloody inventory day.  _

Renault had joined the Confederacy only recently at the urging of his mother, who had come to feel that the Republic’s regulations were “strangling” the family business—a luxury hotel chain on the Deep Core world of Empress Teta. David had protested, recalling the words his mother had once spoken of the Confederacy.  _ “‘Terrorist radicals,’ you called them,”  _ he had argued. 

But that was different, she had insisted. That was back when the group had been known as the Galactic Confederacy, and the only act they were notable for was a failed attempt to capture an unremarkable chunk of rock in the Mid Rim. This newly reformed “Confederacy of Independent Systems” was respectable, she said. Titans of intergalactic industry were at the helm now, and they were acting in the interest of corporations everywhere. And dammit, if Czerka and the Sluissi and that prefab colony supply company on Devaron were going to be represented in the CIS, so would Renault Luxury Resorts. 

So off David had gone, and when he’d found out he’d been assigned to the proverbial tip of the Confederacy’s space warfare spear—an orbital bombardment station called the  _ Lancer _ —he’d assumed it was because he would be given a position of some importance. 

How wrong he had been. He was indeed working on the  _ Lancer _ . . . in one of the station’s many cargo rooms, responsible for overseeing the stocking of blaster power packs and— _ what was it again?  _ Renault thought to himself, glancing down at the manifest—clone trooper nutrient paste tubes. 

He looked up at the pair of clones he shared the room with. Each was pacing down a different row of shelving, manifest in one hand and scanning tool in the other. They moved in perfect unison as they lifted the tools to scan each box, and when Renault spoke to address one clone both heads turned to look at him—as if the two men were one organism.

“How are we coming along?” Renault asked. 

“Fine, sir,” one unit said.

Speaking in the same voice, practically finishing the first clone’s sentence, the other continued: “Should have this room wrapped up in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank god,” Renault muttered under his breath, hoping the wetworks wouldn’t hear his complaints. Then again, maybe he could complain as loudly as he wanted to. They were clones; he had no reason to worry about keeping up worker morale. 

A  _ whoosh  _ of compressed air rushing into the room brought Renault’s thoughts back to the present. The freight turbolift at the opposite end of the storage room had opened up to reveal a lone occupant—a droid, its stiff arms bent inward at the elbow, shuffled out of the elevator and into the cargo room.

A hiss of breath escaped Renault’s nose.  _ What now? _

“Good morning, sirs,” the droid buzzed through its vocabulator. “I am LZ-A24, at your service.”

Renault furrowed his brow. “You’re here to help with the inventory?” 

The droid paused; its head cocked slightly to the side, and the two yellow lights built into its face seemed to blink. “Of course, sir,” it replied after a moment’s silence.

“Well, I can’t say no to that,” the human replied, strolling across the room to meet the shuffle-walking droid halfway. “Here,” he offered, extending the cargo manifest datapad out towards the robot. 

The droid cocked its head to the side again. “Thanks.” As the robot reached out to grab the datapad with one hand, its posture seemed to loosen and its other arm shot forward, jabbing Renault in the throat. 

As his windpipe collapsed, Renault fell to the floor and gasped for air. The droid, its stature now fully relaxed, kicked Renault in the chest. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision, but he could just make out two human figures appearing from within the freight turbolift. Both dressed in the navy blue uniform of a Republic officer, the men moved in unison towards the two clones in the room. 

Beams of glowing blue plasma seemed to sprout from the hands of the two new arrivals. As the figures grew blurrier in his vision, Renault continued to gasp for air. Before he could draw a full breath, another swift kick from the droid sent his consciousness sinking into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

“Again, Liz, was that really necessary?” Obi-Wan scolded the droid as he clipped his lightsaber to his belt. 

The droid’s yellow eyes snapped to a crimson hue. “Why’d you have me add a combat droid profile to my brain if I’m not going to use it?” she hissed as she dragged the CIS officer behind a set of cargo shelves. 

“I’ll uninstall it after we’re done, Obi-Wan,” Anakin offered, shutting off his own lightsaber. 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Liz said as she marched back into the center of the room. “You go rooting around in my head and I’ll sell you to the Confederacy for real.” 

Anakin raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, rolling his eyes at his friend. “Okay, now what?” 

Obi-Wan stroked his fingers through his beard. “Liz, is our ship still intact? They haven’t disabled it, have they?” 

The droid’s eyes went dark briefly before returning to their blue color. “Everything on the ship is still functional, Mister Kenobi,” she said. “We’re good to go.” 

_ “Good” isn’t exactly how I’d describe it,  _ Obi-Wan thought to himself as he strolled toward one wall of the room. Plucking an emergency oxygen mask from a rack near the storage room’s door, he lifted the mask over his mouth and clipped the air canister to his belt. 

“Really, Master?” Anakin chuckled. The younger Jedi reached into his uniform pocket and extracted a small earpiece. As he inserted it into his ear, he continued: “You’re going to wear that?”

“ _ Just a safety precaution,”  _ Obi-Wan said, his voice now electronically modulated by the mask over his mouth. “ _ Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your face?”  _

“Hey, that was different!” Anakin shot back, running a mechanical finger along the scar near his eye. “That time was an accident. This time we’re doing it on purpose.” Moving his right arm to the earpiece he wore, he tapped the device with a finger. “Comm check.” After a moment, he made a thumbs-up in Obi-Wan’s direction. “We’re good.”

Obi-Wan squinted at Anakin’s earpiece as he placed a commlink of his own into his right ear. “ _ That commlink’s not military issue equipment, Anakin. _ ” 

“Neither is that oxygen mask,  _ General _ ,” Anakin teased. “This whole thing’s a bit unorthodox, I think some nonstandard gear is allowed.” 

Obi-Wan sighed, the exhalation fogging up the clear plastic of the oxygen mask and buzzing through the device’s vocabulator. He reached down to his belt and felt his lightsaber hilt, as if the weapon’s presence would somehow reassure him this crazy plan was about to work. It was . . . less than effective. 

“ _ All right, Anakin,”  _ the Jedi said, planting his feet squarely on the floor and looking over at his student. “ _ Let’s do this.” _

Anakin tapped the commlink earpiece once again. “Hey, Padmé,” he spoke aloud. “You ready to go?”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CONFEDERACY OF INDEPENDENT SYSTEMS** _

__

The Confederacy of Independent Systems is a government with territorial holdings in the Corporate Sector and Outer Rim regions. It appears to be backed by a handful of major corporations based in these sectors of space, and has through coercion or use of force convinced several worlds to secede from the Galactic Republic. 

The CIS, as it is commonly known, evolved from the terrorist group that identified itself as the Galactic Confederacy. This Confederacy gained galactic infamy when, in 1152, it carried out an unsuccessful siege of then-independent planet Had Abbadon. The Confederacy of Independent Systems has since taken responsibility for this attack, via one of the few public announcements from their elusive leader known only as “The Chief Executor.”

The legal status of the CIS is disputed by members of the Republic. It does not technically enjoy the same level of recognition as an independent planet (such as Manaan) or sector (such as Centrality). The official declaration of war by the Republic Defense Committee in 1152 was thus decried by opponents as giving the Confederacy “unnecessary legitimacy.” Noted isolationist Garm Bel Iblis—who voted against the declaration of war—has suggested the move elevated the CIS above the “so-called [region of] Hutt Space” in the eyes of both the Senate and the general public. 


	3. Improvised Entry

“This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”

“ _ You say that every time we do something. _ ”

“Because each time we manage to get stupider,” Padmé Amidala replied. “You two in position?”

“ _ More or less. Do your thing, dear. _ ”

“Worst vacation ever.”

From the bottom of the cockpit ladder, a voice called,  “All set down here, ma’am.”

“ _ Amidala _ , please,” she replied—probably harsher than necessary, but the thing she was about to do had her the teensiest bit nervous. “I don’t outrank you, I’m not even in the damn military.”

“You seem to be awfully close to a Republic combat mission for not being in the military. Ma’am.”

Turning back to the  _ Spice Dancer _ ’s control panel, she muttered under her breath, “Yeah, well, it’s the only way I get to see my husband, turns out.”

The cockpit had seen some considerable upgrades in the last couple of years. No longer did loose wires sprout from portions of the control panel; missing buttons had been replaced, metal surfaces shined up. The viewport was free from any specks of dust, and the portion of the ship’s nose visible through it was no longer caked with rust. The only thing that had remained from the original setup were the chairs—Anakin had insisted, saying he liked the feel of the faux leather too much to replace them.

As she gazed out the viewport, Padmé caught a glimpse of herself in the transparisteel. No, she hadn’t changed as much as her ship had in the last two years, but there were differences nonetheless. A faint scar showed on her forehead, where it had connected with a control panel over the skies of Had Abbadon. A couple of gray hairs had popped up, though they seemed to be invisible to anyone but her—caused, no doubt, by the stress of operations like this one. And there was something in her eyes now that she liked, a certain . . . confidence. She wasn’t the same woman who’d been pulling scams in cave bars, that was certain.

_ Okay, Amidala, enough navel-gazing. Let’s be suicidal. _

Hanging in the distance was an ovoid object roughly the size of two  _ Venator _ -class Star Destroyers stapled together. Padmé had never seen one in person, but it had come up in briefings over and over again in the last few months—a  _ Lancer _ -class Precision Orbital Bombardment Station, better known among Republic circles as a crustbuster. This particular one was notable for reducing the entire city of Lapis into a smoking crater with a single shot.  _ Makes the deathboxes over Had Abbadon look like kids’ toys. _

It was hard to tell with most of the  _ Dancer _ ’s systems powered down, but the  _ goal _ was for the yacht to be roughly aligned with a very precise point on the station’s hull. Fortunately for Padmé, the thing didn’t rotate; she doubted even Anakin could have kept their ship aligned with a constantly moving point on a space station’s exterior without using any engines.

“Okay,” she said into the comm, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Liz, ready to start the scrambler?”

“ _ Yes, Miss Padmé! If it’s still working, that is—I  _ do _ wish the Defense Force could have given us a vessel in better condition to work with. _ ”

“Great, Liz, you really know how to psych a girl up.” Gingerly, as if afraid that it would bite her if she touched it, Padmé reached for the ignition, pressed her fingers to it. “Scrambler, now.”

A few seconds of silence followed from the other end of the line; then, chipper as ever, Liz said in a blue-eyed tone, “ _ Oh, wonderful! The scrambler is online. _ ”

“Welp, now or never. Punching it.” And with that, she engaged the ignition.

Rattling to life, the  _ Spice Dancer _ ’s engines flared, accompanied by the sound of several different klaxons—not because vital systems were failing but because Padmé hadn’t booted them up in the first place before triggering the engines.  _ Sounds like old times,  _ she thought as the yacht rocketed forward. Careful not to so much as brush the control yoke, she waited for one second. Two.

And then killed the thrusters.

“Liz,” she barked, “disengage scrambler.”

“ _ Done! _ ”

It hadn’t been long, but the burn had done its job—the  _ Dancer _ , drifting at a constant speed now, was steadily moving toward the looming crustbuster, the ovoid shape growing larger in the viewport.

“ _Okay,_ ” Anakin said over the line, “ _hopefully no one noticed that._ _We’ll be ready for you when you get here._ ”

After a few seconds, Padmé noticed that she was chewing on her bottom lip pretty aggressively. Making a conscious effort to stop, she tore her gaze away from the growing space station and called down to her passengers, “Okay, we’re moving! Stand by for Stage II.” Faintly, she heard a shuffling of feet and clattering of armor.

_ Hey, _ she thought to herself,  _ you won’t be dying alone, at least. Four other people. People a floor below you, people you don’t even know, but still. _

At this point, her job was pretty simple. She just had to sit there, watch the station grow closer and closer, and wait for the distance to close. Without braking. Or steering. And hope the others knew what they were doing.

Piece of cake.

_ Fifty seconds to collision,  _ the ship’s proximity sensors let her know.

Well, that meant at least fifty seconds of her life left to fill, so she unholstered her Blastech sidearm and checked the power pack for approximately the tenth time today. Replaced it. Unholstered it again. Then made the mistake of looking back out the viewport—the crustbuster now filled a sizable portion of its center, and she could make out individual turbolaser towers along the bottom edge.

_ Forty seconds to collision. _

“Okay, guys, forty seconds out.” Padmé paused, then asked: “You  _ are _ sure you’re in the right place, yeah?”

“ _ If the map Liz sent you didn’t get corrupted or anything, yeah. I think. _ ”

Exhaling slowly, she idly looked down at the proximity alert. Thirty-three seconds. “Next time, Liz, choose a room that has a viewport.”

_ Thirty seconds. _

A whisper of air rushing by tickled at her ears—nothing but her thoroughly on-edge imagination, Padmé knew, but still, the sonic illusion didn’t help to settle her stomach. Especially since, as they drew closer, she couldn’t really spot any identifying characteristics on the section of hull the  _ Dancer _ was shooting toward. It was just one long stretch of solid metal. “Uh, guys, where’s the airlock?”

Obi-Wan, sounding apologetic, spoke up. “ _ Ahh, well, there weren’t really any in an ideal spot. _ ”

_ Twenty-five. _

Sudden nausea welled within her, but she pushed it down with a scorching wave of fury, something she was very good at. “Well than  _ what the hell are we doing? _ ”

“ _ Um, Padmé, _ ” Anakin interjected, “ _ not to interrupt, but we’ve really gotta time this right— _ ”

“Twenty seconds, Skywalker, and when they’re over if I’m not dead I’m going to  _ murder _ you three,” she hissed.

“Everything all right up there, ma’am?” called one of the voices from below.

“If you call me that one more time,” she shouted down without taking her eyes off the crustbuster, “I swear to the gods—” As those words left her mouth, the station expanded to fill the entire viewport. Willing herself to stop, she turned back to the comm unit. “Fifteen seconds. Guys, some news from your end would be nice—”

“ _ Okay, _ ” Anakin barked suddenly, “ _ I can feel you. Obi-Wan, ready? _ ”

Twelve seconds to collision.

Ten.

Nine.

Without warning, a massive hand reached out and shoved Padmé back into her chair, the faux leather enveloping her. The sudden G-force pressed down on her chest brutally, steamrolling the air out of her; her eyes bulged, and she only just managed to avoid biting down on her tongue. As the deceleration hit, the  _ Dancer _ gave a deep, deep groan, and then Padmé’s view of the station through the viewport shifted, the bare length of hull in front of her sliding out of sight as the ship turned sharply to the left.

Finally, she squeezed her eyes shut, the shrill cry of the proximity alarm filling her ears. Counted down the seconds.  _ Five. Four. Three. Two. One— _

After several more seconds had passed, she eased her eyes open.

The  _ Dancer _ was stationary, the only motion a slow sway as it bobbed back and forth. The viewport to the right was full of space station, to the left open space. And while she felt as though she were on the verge of a heart attack, Padmé could breathe again.

Panting, she let her head flop toward the comm unit and breathed, “Tell . . . the Force . . . it needs . . . an updated rangefinder.” 

“ _Hey,”_ her husband said, sounding frazzled himself, “ _YOU_ _try catching a starship with nothing but your mind sometime._ ”

“No . . . thanks.” Then, flopping in the general direction of the lower deck: “Everyone . . . okay down there?”

A chorus of  _ Aye _ s affirmed this.

“Okay,” she said, recovering her breath. “So what are we supposed to do with this retrofitted airlock now that there’s nothing for us to connect to, exactly?”

“ _ Just extend it. We’re gonna need the stencil. _ ”

“You’re going to need wha—” She stopped. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ ”

Unbuckling her crash webbing, swearing under her breath, and willing her heart to please calm down, she searched the panel for the airlock controls. “Gods, I hate you guys.”

 

* * *

 

Glen Divrik winced and pressed a gloved hand to his stomach. “We can’t, like, wait a few minutes before boarding?”

“Aww, feeling spacesick, Divrik?” asked one of his three squadmates, Saska. The female Ishi Tib clapped him on the back, making his insides lurch again.

“I’d just rather not storm a space station if there’s a risk I’m gonna vomit all over my boots, is all,” Glen said, bending down for a second and just closing his eyes. Not that it made much difference—only the emergency lights were currently on, to emit as small an energy signature as possible. “Whew. Okay, I’m okay.”

“Man, Amidala must be a hell of a pilot, pulling that off,” said Jayla, adjusting the grip on her blaster rifle with one hand and scratching at her lekku with the other. “Guess it runs in the family.”

“I’d still like to know how exactly we did that without thrusters,” Saska said, her scaly eyelids narrowing somewhat. “There’s something they aren’t telling us, is all I’m—”

“Stow it,” barked Kalen, the fourth member of their party. The human inclined his head toward the ladder, which Amidala was making her way down. “All good down here, ma’am,” he told her, taking Glen by the arm and hauling him back upright.

“Good,” she replied, a trifle shakily—not that Glen blamed her. He felt like puking his guts out when all he’d done was sit through the maneuver, no way in hell he could have performed it. “Airlock is extended, and our way in is . . . forthcoming.”

Saska’s brow ridges tweaked. “Erm, what does  _ forthcoming _ mean?” she asked, clacking her beak questioningly.

“Just get down there,” Amidala sighed, her expression longsuffering. “Through the hatch in the galley floor, follow me.”

“Um,” Glen said, relieved to note as he opened his mouth that the nausea seemed to be passing, “if there isn’t a way in yet, shouldn’t we wait up here?”

“Oh, trust me,” the woman replied, heading for the galley, “you won’t want to miss this.”

The five of them threaded into the galley, where Amidala knelt down and depressed a button in the floor to the left of the table. With a  _ hiss _ of processed air, a panel slid aside, revealing a ladder leading down to the umbilical below. Shaking her head and muttering something under her breath that Glen couldn’t catch, Amidala motioned for the rest to follow and then started down the ladder.

A fresh lurch tore at Glen’s stomach as hs weight promptly vanished halfway down the ladder, the  _ Spice Dancer _ ’s artificial gravity generator losing its hold on him. Doing his best to suppress the urge to vomit, he pushed off with his feet, floating a few feet down the length of the umbilical before grabbing onto a handhold. From behind, the other four made soft noises of discomfort as their own centers of gravity were turned about; this was gratifying.

The tube, a cramped length of plastic about four feet in diameter, was illuminated only by the faint red glow of emergency lighting, rendering everything shadowy and indistinct. Thus, when Glen first saw the solid sheet of metal at the other end of the tunnel, he assumed it was just his eyes playing tricks on him. But then Jayla said, alarm entering her voice, “Where’s the rest of the airlock?”

“Relax,” Amidala told her, “the seal isn’t gonna let any vacuum in.”

Glen felt his stomach drop again.

“You mean to tell me,” Kalen demanded, his normally implacable face losing a bit of color as he weightlessly bobbed back and forth, “that we’re just stickied to the outside of the hull with  _ no door _ ?”

“You’re about to get one.” Raising a commlink to her mouth, Amidala said, “Okay, boys, let’s get it over with.”

Before any of them could ask what that meant, a sudden flare of white shot through the metal at the end of the tube. A split second later, another joined it on the other side. And as Glen watched, heart hammering in his throat, the flares started to move, tracing a ragged circle  _ just _ within the lip of the umbilical’s edge.

When the blistering white lights met, the paths they’d cut already fading to orange, the circle they’d carved collapsed inward. Glen bowed his head as a rush of air roared past his head, artificial atmosphere meeting artificial atmosphere uneasily. Saska swore loudly, the word carried away on the surging air, and Glen saw Kalen lose his grip on his handhold and start floating.

As the rushing torrent of air died away, Glen dared to look up. Once again, what he saw at the other end of the tunnel had to be his eyes playing tricks on him.

General Kenobi, along with his aide, Skywalker, both stood at the far end of the corridor, anchored by the space station’s artificial gravity. And each held in his hand a shining blade of blue-white plasma.

_ Are those what I think they are? _

A sudden smack to his shoulder caused him to jerk his head around—it was Amidala, who did the same to each squad member in turn as she kicked off and floated past them. “What’re you standing around for?” she asked, making sure to land feet-first as gravity took effect at the other end of the tunnel. “You’d think you guys never used an airlock before.”

 

* * *

 

When Anakin deactivated his lightsaber and moved to hug her, Padmé whacked his arm aside. “Oh no, Skywalker, not until we get out of here.” Turning to Obi-Wan, who was hastily stowing his own lightsaber at his belt with one hand while pulling an oxygen mask away from his face with the other, she felt some happiness tug at her despite her best intentions. “Kenobi—been a while.”

“Yes,” the general said in his clipped Core accent as he tossed the oxygen  canister aside, “war does have a nasty habit of upending one’s social life.” Smiling, he extended his hand; shooting a pointed look at her husband, Padmé gripped and shook. “Lovely to see you, Padmé.” Turning to the four Typhoon soldiers, who were gawking from within the umbilical, he put his commanding-officer face back on, saying sternly, “None of you saw that, understood?”

The four nodded hastily and began floating for the station.

Smirking, Anakin said, “They’re just experimental plasma torches I’ve been tinkering with, nothing too exciting. The general and I thought they’d come in handy.” Then, turning back to Padmé, he gave that flyboy grin of his and said, “Done being angry yet?”

No, she really wasn’t, but he was looking handsome in that way he always got after he did something monumentally dumb and had it work, and it  _ had _ been two months since she’d seen him last, and the next thing she knew she was kissing him in full view of the troops and not giving a damn.

“I’m doing just fine too, thanks,” Liz broke in.

Rolling her eyes, Padmé broke away from her husband and turned to take in the droid, whose eyes shone crimson. “Trust me, Liz, you’re the only one of my friends I  _ don’t _ worry about.”

“I would take that as a compliment, but I know better.”

One of the two human squad members—Kalen, Padmé thought it was—cleared his throat as he touched down. “Erm, General, with all due respect, shouldn’t we be—?”

“Right,” Obi-Wan said, reddening slightly, “the mission. Well, at the moment we’re standing in either a very small storage room or a very big closet. The  _ goal _ is to get to the bridge and blow this thing up—we have a rough set of directions, which Liz is beaming to your personal mapping units right now. And to that end—” He turned to Liz. “We’re going to need a distraction.”

Nodding sharply, the droid replied, “Let’s hope the self-destruct on that piece of crap is still working.”

“Ready when you are.”

The red of her eyes flaring a few degrees brighter, Liz held up a remote controller in her right hand. “Let’s blow some clones to hell.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much, huh?” Padmé asked.

“Oh, you should have seen her in the cell block,” Anakin muttered to her.

A mechanical thumb punched the very large red button in the center of the remote.

Five seconds later, a klaxon started blaring.

“ _ Alert, _ ” droned an electronic voice over the ship’s intercom, “ _ alert. There has been an attack. All combat personnel to the hangar bay. Alert, alert. There has been an attack. All combat personnel to the hangar bay. _ ”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, “if that’s not a distraction nothing is.” Turning to the soldiers and sweeping his arm forward, he asked: “Lead the way?”

To their credit, the four Typhoon members got over their incomprehension of the last five minutes very quickly. First Kalen and Divrik, then Saska and Jayla hustled forward, taking point.

“We’ve got the rear,” Anakin said, turning to Padmé and grinning. “After you, dear?”

Exhaling, priming her blaster, and motioning to Liz to cover her flank, Padmé started for the door. “Let’s join the party.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: ADAPTIVE DOCKING SYSTEM** _

When two craft dock in space, an airtight seal must be formed between them to allow safe transfer of passengers or delicate cargo. In the early days of space travel, competing starship manufacturers used different types of docking ports, causing compatibility issues when a ship from one manufacturer attempted to dock with another. Though most of the Republic’s major shipbuilding corporations have now adopted the same docking port standard, the Adaptive Docking System is available for any vessels which do not conform to it.

The Adaptive Docking System consists of a flexible tube that can be extended and retracted from a spacefaring vessel. The end of the tube is lined with several magnetic and micro-suction adhesive points, allowing it to attach to any surface and form a temporary seal. Once connected to a docking target, the tube is pressurized so that life forms may safely pass through it. 

While convenient, the Adaptive Docking System is not without its risks. The seal at the end of the tube is not rated for attachment to certain durasteel alloys, and the flexible and collapsible nature of the tube makes it prone to tears and fissures. Adaptive Docking Systems were once sold with breath masks meant for use as a backup air supply during transit through the tube; more modern models instead come equipped with a magnetic field generator to preserve atmospheric seal in the event of a rupture. 


	4. Burned Bridge

Panic spread throughout the control bridge of the Confederacy’s _Lancer_ station. Officers scrambled from terminal to terminal, shouting reports over each other. The bridge held telltale signs of a celebration cut short—partially consumed glasses of sparkling wine sat scattered about on desks, and the audio system was still broadcasting music beneath the din of activity.

In the center of the chaos, Commander Forthos twirled her half-empty glass of sparkling wine between thumb and forefinger and silently cursed herself for prematurely declaring victory. Eyes narrowing, the commander threw back the rest of her wine and set the glass on the armrest of her command chair. It was time to get to work.

“Order the support ships to scramble fighters!” she barked. “Have them cover every hangar exit; those Jedi are _not_ getting off this station.” Forthos turned to a wetwork who didn’t seem currently occupied with a task. “You, turn the damn sound system off!”

“Ma’am, the admiral’s office just responded to our meeting request,” the station’s comm officer called out. “Should I update them on the situation?”

Forthos’ eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply. Rushing to tell the admiral that she’d captured Kenobi and Skywalker had probably been her biggest blunder of the day. Delivering them to the _Charybdis_ unannounced would have just as easily landed her a promotion— _and you wouldn’t be in this position of having to recapture two damn Jedi before the admiral finds out,_ she thought to herself.

“No, no,” the commander said aloud. “We don’t need to concern her with this. We’ll take care of it ourselves. Someone get on the security camera feed and find out where the Jedi are.”

A shower of sparks from the rear of the room drew everyone’s attention toward the bridge entry door. Though it was sealed shut, the door was also glowing as a beam of blue-white plasma sliced through it. The sound of several blasters being unholstered caused Forthos to dart her eyes around the bridge. Every single officer had leveled their gun at the glowing door.

“Weapons down,” the commander said, motioning with her arms for everyone to lower their blasters. “The admiral wants the Jedi alive. We aren’t going to shoot them.”

With a great clatter, the durasteel plate door fell forward into the bridge. A uniformed figure holding a glowing rod of plasma stepped through the newly-formed hull. “And for that, I thank you.”

“General Kenobi,” Forthos said, feeling the perverse urge to suppress a grin. In a twisted sense, what the general and his sidekick had just pulled off was almost impressive—sneaking on board with a fake captor, getting out of the brig undetected, fighting the way to the bridge after severely damaging their hangar. “Where’s your other half?”

“He’s busy. It’s just us for now.”

“I take it you’re here to negotiate?”

A smirk played across Kenobi’s lips. “Not exactly.”

At the back of Forthos’ mind, a voice whispered that the general wouldn’t have put himself in this position without a plan—he’d gotten captured deliberately, surely he hadn’t just decided to stroll to the bridge alone—but then her eyes caught one of the sparkling wine glasses littering the bridge, and her thoughts flashed to an image of Admiral Valis finding out that she had failed. Or, worse yet, of Lord Maul deciding to express his dissatisfaction personally. Reflexively, she reached for her sidearm.

“In that case,” she said, her voice quivering to a degree that was noticeable to her but she hoped not to others, “you’re a prisoner of war. For real this time.” Drawing the pistol, she leveled it at his chest.

If Kenobi was at all concerned by this motion, he didn’t show it. “Commander,” he said, barely lifting one eyebrow, “do you remember what happened the last time someone drew a gun on me on a Confederate bridge?”

“You’re insane,” she snapped back. “You can’t kill all of us.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to,” Kenobi replied, lazily angling his saber upward. “You, I’m taking alive.”

For a moment after he’d said this, her bridge crew simply stood, digesting the information.

Then, without warning, the wetworks among them were raising their guns—and swiveling _away_ from the general.

Toward Forthos.

It was a constant rumor circulating among the officers of the Confederacy—that the clones had programming, orders never to allow their superiors to be captured or to surrender. The directive was baked into their brains, triggered at the slightest sign that their commanding officers might be taken alive. The trick, of course, was that no one who spread these rumors had any way of _proving_ them—any situation in which a clone shot someone to prevent their capture was a situation in which the clone themselves was going to end up shot, along with everyone else on the bridge. If there were witnesses to clone assassinations, none of them were living.

In the hairsbreadth of time between the clone crew members raising their weapons and the instant when they would fire, turning her body into a rag doll, Commander Yill Forthos thought: _I guess I’m about to become another one of the dead witnesses._

Then a fusillade of blaster fire tore through the bridge.

Forthos’ finger spasmed reflexively against her trigger, firing a bolt at Kenobi; he twitched his saber, redirecting the shot. At the same time, bodies began slumping to the deck.

Hers was not among them.

For several moments, her brain struggled to catch up with time happening around her; she thought, _But they shot me, why am I not falling over?_ She looked down at her midriff, pawed at it with her free hand—no blaster wounds.

When she looked back up, Kenobi had gotten closer by several paces. Pouring into the room behind him were four other people, each dressed in Republic armor and sweeping a blaster rifle across the room. Behind them came another two individuals—one a human woman, her pistol trained squarely on Forthos, the other a patchwork droid with gleaming blue eyes.

And behind _them_ trailed yet another man dressed in a Republic officer’s uniform, a cocky grin on his face, his mechanical right hand clutching a blade of blue plasma.

“Ah,” said Kenobi, without turning to look behind him. “My other half. And _his_ other half. Excellent timing, all of you.”

Marching past him without breaking her stride, the human woman circled behind Forthos and took up residence there. “Drop the blaster, hon.”

While she wasn’t conscious of complying, Forthos heard her pistol clatter to the deck.

The two non-clone members of her bridge crew were still upright, their eyes flitting from the blaster rifles trained on them to the identical corpses sprawled at their feet. Kenobi flicked his own gaze toward them briefly, as if to include them in the address to follow, and then returned his attention to Forthos. “Now then. As I said, I’m not particularly in the mood for negotiations, so what I’m about to tell you is my final word on the matter. It seems to me that the three of you still standing owe us your lives—if my men hadn’t been standing just outside waiting for foul play, your shipmates would have gunned you all down in cold blood. And if you’re not seeing eye-to-eye with me on that obligation, let me state the obvious and say that there are currently two lightsabers and five blasters pointed at you, and none of you are armed. In short, you’re no longer in charge here.”

Skywalker—it couldn’t be anyone else—paced a circle around the bridge, casually twirling his lightsaber back and forth. “So,” he said, as smoothly as if he and Kenobi had practiced how this speech would go, “here’s our offer. You guys tell us the best way to blow this thing the hell up. Then you come back to Typhoon Division under our custody. In exchange, you avoid being on this thing when it explodes. Deal?”

Yill Forthos stood there, silent, remembering. The pride she’d felt, being appointed head of this station. The prickle at the back of her neck as they’d warmed up the weapon above Paalnet. The near-religious awe that had swept through her when they’d obliterated the city of Lapis from on high.

And once again, her thoughts flitted back to Lord Maul. The sheer, unadulterated _rage_ that would rise up in those yellow eyes when he heard what she’d done . . .

Something sharp and cold and greasy poked into the back of her neck, interrupting this reverie. “We haven’t got all day,” the human female’s voice said from behind Forthos, digging the muzzle of her blaster a hair deeper into the commander’s skin.

“Fine,” she squeaked in a tiny voice, then cleared her throat and wrenched herself a bit straighter, repeating “Fine” in a louder voice.

Inclining his head gratefully, Kenobi let his lightsaber retract back into its hilt with a gentle _hisss_. “Excellent.” Lifting a hand to the commlink earpiece he wore, he said clearly and carefully, “Cody, you’re a go.”

A few seconds later, the bridge’s auditory simulators resounded with a cavernous _thump._ Forthos risked turning her head enough to see out the viewport, and felt her stomach drop—floating in the distance was a new arrival, a Republic Star Destroyer looking entirely too much like a circling shark.

“Liz,” Kenobi continued, “if you would.”

Clanking over to stand in front of Forthos, the droid withdrew a pair of binders from its midsection, its eyes coating them in blue reflections. “Hold out your hands, if you please!” it said in an extremely chipper tone.

As soon as she had, the droid’s eyes snapped to red. It snapped the cuffs on with enough force to make Forthos swear out loud, and hissed, “That’s for trying to weasel out of paying me.”

Emerging from behind the commander, the human woman picked up one of the half-drunk glasses of sparkling wine, shrugged, took a sip. “Here’s to victory,” she said, and then chucked the glass to the floor with relish.

 

* * *

 

Striding down the hall, his deactivated lightsaber pressed into Commander Yill Forthos’ back, Anakin whistled a tune, his steps almost skipping. “Man, I can’t _wait_ to see this.”

“General,” the Ishi Tib soldier, Saska, said from further up ahead, “permission to tell your aide to stop acting crazy.”

“Oh that I had that power,” his master replied in a longsuffering tone.

The crustbuster, Forthos and her two friends had told them, had no self-destruct feature built in—evidently, the Confederacy’s desire not to let things fall into enemy hands had lost to its desire not to blow up things it had spent a lot of money on. What it _did_ have was a very big cannon, and an iris that closed over that cannon when it was not in use to prevent damage. The iris was supposed to open as soon as the cannon was brought online, but that function was easy enough to disable. So, if one were to aim the cannon dead ahead, keep the iris closed, and add a 15-minute timer . . .

From ahead, Padmé snapped, “All of you, shut up. Last thing we want is to get bottlenecked in here.”

Forthos started bringing her boots down on the deck with exaggerated _whack_ s, as if she wanted exactly that.

“Hey, Psycho Girl,” the Twi’lek, Jayla, said, “if you feel like getting shot by one of your own men be my guest.” That shut her up.

“Relax,” Anakin stage-whispered to his wife. “Everyone is gonna be running around panicked by the _Coelacanth_ , there’s no way they make it all the way up here before we get back to the _Dancer._ ”

He really did have to get better about the cockiness thing, he told himself—one thing Obi-Wan had tried to hammer home in his lessons was that the Force preferred the way that was humbling to the quick and easy— _But hey, we just pulled off something pretty damn spectacular._ Surely he was allowed to feel good about saving millions of lives by blowing this thing to hell.

“This turbolift down here,” Liz called from a few steps up ahead. As the eleven of them clustered around the door, Anakin thought, _And hey, there’s just one more turbolift between us and the ship. No way anything seriously threatening could fit in one of th—_

The Force poured cold water down his back.

He and Obi-Wan locked eyes with each other, each sensing the same thing. The turbolift they’d just called wasn’t empty. And inside . . .

“Everyone run,” Anakin said flatly.

All nine members of the party who weren’t privy to the Force turned to look at him, taken aback. “The way back to the ship is this way,” Glen Divrik began to explain—

“Take the stairs,” Obi-Wan snapped, “that’s an order. We’ll hold them off.”

Frowning, Kalen adjusted his blaster rifle and asked, “Who’s—”

“Everyone, _RUN_ ,” Padmé barked. Without further ado, she grabbed Forthos’ wrist and sprinted for the nearest stairwell.

Direct action broke the spell—with several confused looks, the others hefted their gear and sprinted after her, lugging the remaining two prisoners along.

“You know,” Anakin muttered to Obi-Wan, backing away from the turbolift and watching the green lights above it draw closer and closer to their floor, “it’s a good thing she believes in the Force now.”

“Indubitably,” replied his master, and ignited his lightsaber.

With a gentle _ping_ the lift hit their floor and came to a stop. Slowly, the doors began to slide apart.

Six identical Trandoshans stood on the other side of those doors. And each carried a massive shotgun.

 

* * *

 

“General Kenobi _what_?” Cody demanded.

“ _He and Anakin are taking care of . . . something, on the station,_ ” Amidala told him from the _Spice Dancer_ ’s comm. “ _They got a weird feeling, you know how it goes._ ”

Indeed he did. Growling, Cody shot a look at the timer Reyes had painted across the viewport. “They do realize they’ve got eight minutes left before the damn thing blows itself back to the Ruusan Reformation, yes?”

“ _Try being married to one of ‘em, Commander,_ ” Amidala replied, sounding about as frustrated as he felt. “ _They’ll make it out. And if they don’t he’s never going to live it down._ ”

The tiny yacht’s transponder started to move as it pulled out from the crustbuster. “Well,” Cody said, exhaling deeply, “assuming that rust bucket makes it back here in one piece, we’ve captured our first CIS commander in exchange for a general. I suppose that’s reasonable.”

“You’re wonderful at boosting morale, sir,” Reyes replied, a smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. “I’m sure Skywalker has some crazy plan up his sleeve, they’ll get out.”

“They’d damn well better.” Cody squinted through the holographic timer, taking in the ovoid shape of the crustbuster several klicks away. “I’m not rescuing the man from a boarding party gone wrong a bloody second time.”

“ _Could have been worse,_ ” Amidala piped in over the comm again. “ _At least we remembered to disable the turbolasers from the bridge._ ”

“All right, _Spice Dancer_ ,” Reyes said, any rejoinder she might have been preparing to make withering away in response to Cody’s expression, “opening hangar blast doors to receive you.” A sudden red flashing emanated from her console. “Looks like we’re not as big a distraction as we hoped. Got a couple bogies on your tail, make it snappy.”

“Keep the doors open, Reyes,” Cody said, returning his eyes to the countdown. “I have a feeling the general will be landing in rather a hurry.”

 

* * *

 

 _**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES:**_ **LANCER** _**PRECISION ORBITAL BOMBARDMENT STATION** _

As the Galactic Confederacy reformed into the Confederacy of Independent Systems following the Battle of Had Abbadon, their new corporate backers sought to create a device better suited to planetary siege than the _Dictat-_ class battle cruiser. The _Lancer_ Precision Orbital Bombardment Station was their answer to this problem. The aesthetic design of the space station indicates it was created by Sluissi shipbuilders at Sluis Van Shipyards—the likely new provider of starships to the CIS.

Traditional orbital bombardment is intended to raze planets—the tactic is used to level cities, reduce military outposts to rubble, and torch farmland. If traditional bombardment is a shotgun, the _Lancer_ station is a sniper rifle. It fires physical projectiles enveloped in cocoons of energy. As they sail towards a planet’s surface, the energy cocoon protects them from being shot down or captured by a tractor beam. By strategically discharging this energy cocoon, the projectile can also make small in-flight course corrections to ensure it lands on-target.

This energy cocoon also assists the projectile in punching through the surface of a planet. Once the shell has buried itself a meter deep into the ground, it explodes. This effect has earned the station its Republic nickname: the “Crust Buster.” Though deadly, the _Lancer_ is slow to fire. External observation of the station suggests a physical firing mechanism that must be reloaded with a new shell after every shot. 

The precise strikes of the _Lancer_ station have allowed the CIS to capture several planets by firing “warning shots” just outside of settled areas, leaving the intact major cities to surrender lest they also be destroyed by the Crust Buster. Currently, only one _Lancer_ station is known to exist. The success of its campaign throughout the Outer Rim suggests it would not bode well for the Republic if additional _Lancer_ s were constructed.


	5. Improvised Exit

A few minutes ago, Obi-Wan had been gradually letting his guard down, Anakin’s cocky emotions rubbing off on him just the slightest bit. Really, he’d earned it—the plan had gone near-perfectly, they had three prisoners in tow, and soon he would be back on the _Coelacanth_ for a shower and a good night’s sleep after catching up with Padmé.

Now, he was desperately whipping around his lightsaber to try to redirect superheated shotgun blasts, at the same time doing his best not to accidentally hit his apprentice, which in these tight confines wasn’t the easiest thing. He was sweating, he was pretty sure his uniform was on fire, the whole hallway smelled of charred lizard, and Obi-Wan’s mood in general had taken a rather severe downturn.

“Do you think”—he paused to drive the point of his blade into the knee of a Trandoshan—“she set us up?”

“Who, Forthos?” Anakin asked, bending himself backward to avoid getting his head taken off by a shotgun blast. “Nah, probably just”—he threw his hand out and pinned two of the three remaining reptilians to the wall—“the crew noticing that no one was shooting at Cody.”

Striding grimly forward, Obi-Wan whipped his blade across the stomachs of the two lizards Anakin had immobilized, then sidestepped to avoid the final clone’s clawed hand as it swiped at his head with enough force to smash his skull. His apprentice leaned in with his own saber, bringing it upward with a slash that parted the Trandoshan’s upper half from its legs, and said, “We probably should’ve thought of that, huh.”

Exhaling wearily, the general retracted his lightsaber blade. “Believe it or not, Anakin, I prefer plans that _don’t_ involve my ship being shot at.” Feeling the adrenaline drain slowly from his bloodstream with a pulsing ache, he surveyed the carnage at his feet—severed limbs piled all over the deck, bits of floor and wall blackened and melted from shotgun blasts. His left trouser leg was smoldering from a near miss—belatedly, he used the Force to redirect oxygen away from the spot, dousing the flame.

“Well,” he sighed, turning to his apprentice. “Now what?”

Clearing his throat and brushing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes, Anakin considered. “Well, we’ve got about six minutes until the station explodes. The _Dancer_ is gone. We _did_ have another ship—”

“Yes, pity about the whole matter of blowing it up—”

“—so I guess we’re down to one option.”

His apprentice raised his eyebrows, his face lighting up with that crooked flyboy grin.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Scramble to their hangar and hope we left one of their shuttles undamaged enough to make an exit?”

Clapping a hand to the general’s shoulder, Anakin started a brisk jaunt toward the staircase, yanking Obi-Wan along with him. “It’s no fun when you guess right the first time, Master.”

 

* * *

 

Pelting down the hallways, Anakin periodically flung glances at the chronometer on his wrist to see how long they had before everything was reduced to superheated particles. _Three and a half minutes. Been through worse. I’m pretty sure._

Every so often a non-clone officer would run by the two Jedi, eyes widening as they caught sight of the Republic uniforms. Anakin almost went for his lightsaber when the first one crossed their path, but Obi-Wan simply waved his arm forward gracelessly and sent a wave of Force energy outward. The officer staggered, then slumped to the deck, unconscious.

Panting, Anakin did his best to give an impressed whistle. “You can . . . do that?”

“Suggested to her . . .” his master replied, “might be best . . . to go to sleep. May have . . . overdone it.” But each time another being ran by them, Obi-Wan repeated the action, wincing slightly at the ones who banged their heads on the way down.

As they got closer and closer to the hangar—at least, where Anakin _thought_ the hangar was, doing his best to reconstruct the route from his memories of Liz dragging them to the brig—there was no sign of any clones, at least none whose template the pilot recognized. “They can’t still be trying to put out the fire in there, right?” he asked, snatching another glance at his chronometer—three minutes.

Obi-Wan skidded around a tight turn, catching himself on the wall. “Best guess, they headed for the secondary hangar to scramble fighters and deal with Cody. Worst-case scenario, they’re all waiting for us when we get to the primary.”

His apprentice didn’t bother asking how they were going to deal with the latter situation should it arise—even his luck wasn’t that good.

Fortunately, when they got to the hangar, it was simply the usual level of peril—which to any other being would still have been intolerable. Flames were still crackling from the explosion of Liz’s ship, burning in isolated patches on the deck where puddles of fuel had caught fire. Shrapnel and half-destroyed starfighters littered the floor, smoke rising from them in thick, oily clouds. Suppression droids darted from fire to fire, pouring gouts of foam on them, but the flames were still aggressive enough that Anakin could feel a feverish sensation washing over him.

A few clone soldiers—humans, thank the Force—stood by and observed, but hadn’t yet spotted the two Jedi, who were pressed against the far side of a doorway. Anakin scanned the inferno, looking for something that looked half-flyable. “Hey,” he finally said, catching sight of something as the Force gave him a small nudge, “that one could work.”

It was a standard commander’s shuttle—hell, it could have even belonged to Forthos. The model was light and weakly armored at the best of times, and this one was currently smoldering along its dorsal fin where a dollop of flaming slag had latched on, but there didn’t seem to be any significant damage. And, most important, it was built for two.

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan nodded. “Shall we clear the way?”

Anakin looked at his chronometer.

Two minutes.

“Ahh, we might just want to run.” Before his master could say anything, Anakin hastily added: “Hey, even if they spot us, how much damage can they do to a shuttle with small-arms fire?”

 

* * *

 

Karin and her Sawsharks had managed to dust the _Spice Dancer_ ’s handful of pursuers off her back with little fanfare; shortly thereafter, the yacht had come to a landing in the _Coelacanth_ ’s hangar, and Cody had been informed that its acting captain was headed for the bridge.

He’d allowed it, but watching the timer tick steadily downward he wished he hadn’t. Amidala didn’t put one at ease at the best of times, and _Her husband was about to be blown to pieces onboard a space station_ definitely didn’t qualify as “best.” She was biting down on her lip, pacing back and forth, continually swearing under her breath and making promises about what she was going to do to Skywalker when he got over here.

The digits dropped to one minute, and Cody’s heart sank a little further.

“Sir,” Reyes hazarded, throwing a wary look at Amidala, “we’re technically at minimum safe distance but there’s still a risk we could get cooked at this proximity—”

“We’re not backing any farther out, Reyes,” Cody snapped before Amidala could whirl around and vent at his crewman. “They’ll make it.”

Fifty seconds remaining. The commander felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. Reyes looked sick.

Amidala just continued pacing.

Forty-five seconds.

Suddenly, the bridge-wide comm flared to life. “ _CODY!_ ” bellowed General Kenobi. “ _GET THE AUXILIARY HANGAR DOORS OPEN!_ ”

Reyes’ face blossomed into a relieved smile, and Cody felt the weight in his gut lighten. “Doing it now, sir,” he replied as his lieutenant’s fingers scrambled over her controls. “Ready to receive. Now hurry the hell up, begging the general’s pardon.”

“Got ‘em, sir,” his lieutenant said, fingers flying over her sensor screen. “Looks like they nabbed a shuttle.” A few moments later, her expression drooped into a worried frown. “Huh. They’re flying pretty erratically. But my sensors don’t show anyone on their tail . . .”

As the timer continued to tick downward, Cody looked past it and through the viewport, straining to catch a glimpse of the shuttle. Five seconds passed, then ten. _Thirty seconds left._ “Reyes, how are we doing?” he barked.

“At the rate they’re flying, they should make it to minimum safe distance with . . . two seconds to spare.” The lieutenant looked up, opened her mouth to add something, and then froze. “Oh. Oh dear.”

The shuttle was now close enough to see with the naked eye, and it looked like hell. The entire nose was chewed up and blackened, to an extent that Cody feared certain components had to be exposed to vacuum. Skywalker—there was no way the general was piloting the thing—was all over the place, weaving drunkenly and listing the _opposite_ of the direction he needed to go to hit the hangar. Amidala bit out an unfamiliar word that Cody assumed had to be an Oseonian expletive.

Twenty-five seconds.

Skywalker’s voice crackled over the comm. “ _Okay, guys, this thing’s nav system and brakes are shot to hell, so . . . get ready._ ”

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!” Amidala exploded, but the other end of the line clicked off. The shuttle stuttered, sank, and then roared out of the viewport’s frame.

“Reyes, turn that damn timer off,” Cody ordered. Wordlessly complying, the lieutenant punched a button and the electronic display died. The ovoid shape of the crustbuster hung there in the void, unmasked, outward appearance suggesting absolutely nothing wrong.

“Okay,” Reyes said, voice nervy, “they’re right on top of us. Provided they don’t crash . . .”

Before she could finish, a klaxon started to blare, the bridge’s red emergency lights blinking on and off, drowning out the rest of her statement. Cody, exasperated beyond the point of stoicism, raised his voice: “Reyes, would you tell me what the hell _that_ is about—”

Several kilometers away, the crustbuster tore itself apart.

The _Coelacanth_ ’s viewport polarizer dimmed itself almost to opacity in an attempt to protect the crew’s eyes, but Cody could still see the explosion clearly—it blossomed at the far end of the ovoid’s “barrel,” then raced backward across it, a city-destroying shot unfolding in reverse. The auditory simulators’ shriek was painfully loud, doing its best to approximate something that big eating itself apart from the inside—and then it redoubled as the husk of the crustbuster’s hull burst apart, cracking the thing into two halves. As the initial flare of hellfire died, Cody saw those two halves begin to fall away from each other, propelled by the blast.

Exhilarating, he supposed, under the right circumstances, but right now he just wanted to know—

“What in the _gods’_ name is going on?” Amidala shouted over the auditory simulators’ roar, finishing his thought for him.

As the explosion faded, the klaxon continued. Reyes tore her eyes away from the viewport, checked her console, and reported, “It appears our auxiliary hangar is on fire, Commander.”

Cody and Amidala met gazes. “Skywalker,” they both said at the same time, and bolted for the turbolift.

 

* * *

 

Roland G’ex _really_ wanted to be able to say he’d caught a glimpse of the crustbuster when it blew. It just wasn’t fair that Karin and Rin were going to be able to see the thing firsthand from their fighter cockpits and brag about it to the rest of the Sawsharks for the remainder of the war. Unfortunately, he was grounded while his Z-95 underwent repairs, and there was no way Commander Cody was going to let him on the bridge. So, the Bith pilot had, depending on how one viewed it, either the good or the bad fortune to be strolling through the _Coelacanth_ ’s auxiliary hangar, trying to get a glimpse of the explosion’s periphery, when General Kenobi and Skywalker made their entrance.

The proximity alarm sounded just in time for him to look up and see a hunk of smoking metal hurtling toward the hangar entirely too fast—then he had hit the deck, flattening himself so hastily that his chin connected with the ground with a head-ringing _thwack_ . He kept his face firmly against the floor, but the _sound_ of what happened, he’d later tell his squadronmates, was probably worse in isolation than _seeing_ the landing would have been—an almighty scream of thrusters firing in reverse to try to brake, and then an even _louder_ scream of metal grinding against metal as the ship tore into the deck sans landing gear.

When the noise had dimmed to a not-too-painful level, Roland hauled himself to his feet and opened his eyes, then promptly swore and scrambled backward. A Confederate shuttle had embedded itself into the hangar—actually torn a track through the floor and buried its nose in the thing—and a massive cloud of thick, black smoke was pouring off it and getting sucked upward into the ventilators. There was a _hiss_ of escaping air as the thing’s landing ramp extended, but at the angle it had chosen to come to a stop, said ramp simply extended into the air, hovering about a foot above the deck.

A few seconds later, General Kenobi and Skywalker tumbled out, hauling ass to get clear of the shuttle, Skywalker bellowing, “ _FIRE CREW! GET A FIRE CREW IN HERE!_ ” And _then_ the automatic fire suppressors embedded in the ceiling activated, and Roland was choking from a mouthful of foam right to his face.

Sputtering and whipping his head back and forth to clear his eyes, the Bith pilot jogged over to the pair. “General Kenobi! Are you—what did—I . . .” Hacking up a wad of the foam, he tried again. “Are you okay?”

Skywalker looked frazzled but elated, his eyes gleaming; the general looked just frazzled, his uniform ragged and his expression slightly punch-drunk. Holding one hand up to his brow to shield his own eyes from more fire-retardant foam and wiping at his beard with the other, he wearily said, “Yes, Roland, I’ll live, thank you.”

“Aww, dammit, we missed it,” Skywalker lamented, the gleam in his eyes turning downcast as realization dawned on him. “What did it look like when it blew?”

“I was a little busy avoiding death by shuttle decapitation,” Roland replied, wincing as he reached up and touched his sundered chin, “but I’m sure it was impressive. Um, General, could we—?”

Nodding vigorously, Kenobi took Skywalker by his shoulder and Roland by his and started for the relative dryness of the nearest hallway.

 

* * *

 

“All in all,” Obi-Wan concluded, downing the dregs of his lukewarm mug of caf, “not our worst mission.”

“I must be rubbing off on you,” his apprentice said in mock wonderment, sprawled across the galley floor with his hands behind his head. “Usually with you _every_ mission is our worst mission.”

“I’ll admit that the thought of the funds we’ll have to request to get that shuttle unfused from the hangar deck doesn’t exactly thrill me,” he conceded, setting the mug back on the table with a _clank_ , “but at least your landings will never get boring.”

Across the table, Padmé sipped her own mug of caf—her third—and said fervently, “This is the last time I let you guys drag me along to watch you both nearly kill yourselves when I’m supposed to be on leave.”

“Hey,” her husband protested from the floor, slumping his face into a wounded configuration, “this is only the third time. That’s a decent batting average for a two-year war.”

“Skywalker,” she said, eyebrows knitting dangerously close together, “I mean it. The rest of this vacation had better _be_ a vacation.”

“All right, all right,” he relented, grimacing as he straightened up and rose from his repose, “I promise. Nothing but the swankiest hotels and drinking cocktails on the beach from now on.”

The almost sensual desire this image flooded Obi-Wan with was enough to briefly make him reconsider his own plans for leave. _I haven’t had a Hapes Cluster since, what—the start of the war?_ Granted, he supposed, he’d only ever had the two, but they’d been memorable enough that he could still taste them if he closed his eyes and remembered. “I don’t suppose you’ve room for a third wheel?” he asked out loud.

“What, you’re on a vacation?” Padmé asked. “Jedi get those?”

“What am I, a barrister?” Anakin groused, ambling over and collapsing onto the bench next to her.

“Yeah, but you’re _my_ Jedi,” she said, smacking him on the back of his head. “They’d damn well better let me take a break with my husband if I tell them to.”

Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan answered, “I do have a bit of a break, yes. Although, joking aside, I’m afraid I won’t be spending it anywhere as nice as a beach on the Core Worlds.”

“Well, we’re not exactly doing that either,” Anakin said, snatching his wife’s mug and taking a gulp of caf. “Oseon has Flamewind coming up, so we’re headed back to see the in-laws and watch the show.”

Raising an eyebrow, the general said, “Well, just don’t wear your uniform, if public opinion on the Republic is still consistent there.”

“You kidding? Getting this thing off is gonna be the highlight of the trip.”

Padmé looked genuinely excited at the prospect of the days to come—come to think, Obi-Wan realized, he didn’t know if she’d been home at all in the time he’d known her. “It’ll be nice to get away,” was all she said, though, before asking him, “And what are you up to?”

He could have gotten into it, but it had been a long day, and he didn’t want to drain what endorphins were still left from the recording of the crustbuster’s destruction Reyes had played back for him, or the sight of Forthos sitting sullenly in the brig. Instead, he simply said, “Oh, the quiet life for me. Off to the Outer Rim to do some sightseeing at a nature preserve.”

Anakin snorted. “Typical.”

“You stay out of trouble your way, Anakin, and I’ll stay out of it mine.”

Chuckling, his apprentice rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, _Master Kenobi._ ”

Rising from the table, the general stretched and groaned softly. “Well, I imagine I’ll see you both back on Coruscant. Until then, Padmé, don’t let this one pull out his lightsaber in a bar and expose the Order to the galaxy.”

“No promises, Kenobi,” she said, smirking and punching her husband softly in the arm, “but I’ll do my best.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CZERKA ARMS CZA-12 PLASMA SHOTGUN** _

The Czerka CZA-12 Plasma Shotgun fires superheated spheres of electrically conductive gas contained in a magnetic envelope. When the projectile leaves one of the weapon’s dual barrels, the magnetic envelope flies through the air for only a few seconds before collapsing. This causes the gas contained within to disperse and condense back into a liquid, sending a scalding spray across the target area. It can burn through most personal defense armor, and the conductive nature of the substance causes significant damage to deflector shields.

The plasma shotgun is perhaps most notable for its disastrous debut at the 1144 Republic Defense Contractor Trade Show. The prototype weapon on the show floor contained a feature that allowed the user to “overcharge” a shot by squeezing the weapon’s grip handle. When the Czerka staffer demonstrating the weapon showcased this feature, he held the charge for too long and the gun exploded, killing him and severely burning two other Czerka staffers. The company quietly shelved the project, and it has not seen the light of day until now. **  
**

Plasma shotguns are wielded by certain special forces troops in the Confederacy’s clone army. Weapons retrieved from the battlefield show significant improvements over the original trade show prototype—the overcharging feature has been reworked to have an automatic safety vent, for example—but it is not without its faults. The gas canisters the shotgun uses for ammunition are costly. Conversely, the electrical and magnetic components within the weapon are inexpensive and prone to failure. However, when the plasma shotgun works, it is extremely effective. A pull of the trigger is practically guaranteed to damage something, whether or not it hits the intended target.


	6. In Committee

The light of the afternoon Coruscant sun glinted across the spires of the city and streamed through the panoramic window of the Senate Building conference room. At the head of the meeting table, Bail Organa rocked back slightly in his chair. He certainly didn’t love being on the Education Committee, but their meeting space was one hell of an upgrade over the vault-like conference room of the last committee he’d served on. 

The south-facing room on an upper floor of the Senate dome enjoyed sunlight throughout the day. Potted plants lined one small shelf—they weren’t from any one world, but rather an engineered amalgamation of several flora from across the galactic core, presumably meant to evoke a sense of home in multiple species. Art hung on the walls—portraits, mostly. The paintings of famous university presidents stared down at Senator Organa and the rest of the committee. Silently judging, always watching.

Out the window, bracketed perfectly by the gently rounded corners of its vaguely rectangular frame, sat the spires of the University of Coruscant’s capital campus. The view, Bail had always assumed, was meant to remind the Education Committee of the cause they were working for. Beautiful though it was, it wasn’t exactly effective. 

Bail’s mind was elsewhere. 

His eyes scanned upward, looking above the Coruscant skyline. Starships so distant they appeared only as pinpoints of light were darting upward, heading for the exit gates in the planetary shield. Somewhere out there among the stars, his friend Obi-Wan was risking his life to save the galaxy. His wife was busy back home, trying to calm a frightened public—and trying to juggle her daily responsibilities with the increased demand being placed on Alderaan’s military manufacturing. 

Even in this very building, there was more important work being done. Floors beneath him, the Defense Committee was probably meeting right now. Mon Mothma had somehow managed to hold her spot on the committee while remaining close to Bail, and for that he was grateful—but he also couldn’t deny his slight jealousy at his friend’s role of greater importance. Instead of helping direct critical supplies to a colony system in need, or move forces strategically to win a campaign somewhere in the Mid Rim, Bail was doing . . . 

_ What  _ are  _ we doing again?  _ he thought to himself. He’d been so busy staring out the window that he’d zoned out of the current meeting almost entirely. Rotating his chair slowly so as not to draw undue attention, the senator glanced down the lengthy meeting table.  _ Ah, right. This.  _

Down each side of the table sat seven senators, bathed in the light from the massive panoramic window that ran the length of the conference table; each looked nearly as bored as Bail. Some senators had an aide or a translator droid with them in the room—not every species on the committee was able to speak Basic, and unlike the Defense Committee, the Education Committee had no rules prohibiting the presence of “excess personnel.”

Perhaps the most glaring evidence of this fact was the hologram at the foot of the table: a life-size projection of a male Duros wearing business attire. He was not a senator, nor did he serve on the staff of one. He was merely a  _ very  _ concerned citizen, a graduate of an unaccredited university in the satellite cities above Duro—a university this Duros man felt very much should be a recipient of Republic funding. How he’d managed to weasel his way into yet another of these committee meetings Bail wasn’t entirely certain.  _ Money, probably,  _ the senator mused, though why the Duros didn’t just donate that money directly to his alma mater was a question nobody had bothered to ask. 

“ _ Just let him talk,”  _ Bail’s predecessor had urged when he’d taken over as Education Committee chairperson. “ _ Senator Limpan will buy you a beer for every meeting you suffer through. I think she’d rather the Ed Committee take the calls than her own office. Can you blame her, really?”   _ It had been a fair point. Limpan, the senator from Duro, was a busy woman. 

The Education Committee’s time, on the other hand, was seemingly worth much less. As the Duros’ hologram seemed to finish speaking, Bail sat up slightly in his chair. “Thank you for your thoughts, sir,” he droned. “We’ll take them into consideration. Have a pleasant day.”

As the projection fizzled out of existence, a collective sigh of relief swept across the room. “Thank the spirits that’s over,” one senator mumbled, though Bail couldn’t quite make out who it was in the rising din of conversation. 

“Order!” he called out halfheartedly, raising his voice above the rest of the room. “We still have  _ actual  _ business to conduct.” This elicited a few chuckles from around the room, but several senators seemed less than amused. Bail swallowed, ignoring the hostile stares, and continued. “Senators Shaelas and Pamlo, I believe you both wished to bring something to the table?”

Shaelas—a Selkath representing the planet Corulag—shifted forward in her seat, causing her damp skin to glisten as light from the window played across it. The aquatic alien senator began speaking in the guttural language of the Selkath, the glossy black droid seated beside her translating the words almost immediately. “Thank you, Senator Organa. We wished to bring a financial issue to the attention of the committee.” 

The senator beside Shaelas—Tynnra Pamlo—continued this thought. “The Taris planetary government recently passed a new budget. Since then, my office has been inundated with calls from my constituents, mostly staff and faculty from the university on Taris. They are requesting additional funding from the Republic.”

“The same has happened on Corulag,” Senator Shaelas’ droid spoke, translating once again. “My planet has cut educational funding in order to allow for more defensive spending. The university would like us to make up the difference.”

Bail sighed. “I was worried this might start happening. I’ve received similar calls myself, both from Alderaan and planets that aren’t represented here on the committee. Unfortunately, we have no extra money to give.”

Grumbles and groans sounded down the conference table, and Bail stretched a hand out to quiet the other senators. “Now, now. There are other ways of dealing with this. I understand that Theed University has begun a fundraising campaign, and they intend to return any surplus money back to us so that we may distribute it to other institutions. If enough schools did this, we could give additional funding to any that couldn’t raise it themselves. I’m willing to be the bad guy, if necessary. I can call the universities back on your home planets and suggest that they start fundraising.”

“You’re going to call my constituents and tell them to beg for money?” 

Bail bit his tongue as a tense silence enveloped the room.  _ Can I get through a single meeting without him making a scene?  _  “Yes, Senator Fey’lya,” he spoke aloud through slightly clenched teeth, addressing his former Vice Chair. “Though I was planning on using more appealing language. I think they’ll be sympathetic. We all have to make sacrifices; there’s a war on.” 

“A war you started,” Fosc Fey’lya snapped back, eliciting a handful of shocked gasps around the table. “Maybe instead of calling  _ my  _ people, you should instruct the University of Alderaan to grovel for credits.” 

“Senator,” Bail said, “I have no authority over the university’s operations. I can’t instruct them to do anything.”

“You’re an alumnus, are you not?” the Bothan asked, the fur along the scruff of his neck rippling with disdain. “You’re the husband of the queen, the chair of the Education Committee, the planet’s senator, and . . .” Fey’lya hesitated in mock disdain before adding his final point. “. . . a former Chancellor of the Republic. Offer a suggestion. I think they’ll listen.” 

Bail clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to drag Fey’lya into a fight in front of the entire committee. He’d get a chance to trade insults with the Bothan senator at some point, but now was not the place or time.  _ Besides,  _ he thought,  _ my former staff member being this petty with me is more likely to gain me sympathy than anything. God knows I need as much of that as I can get. _

“Perhaps he’s right, Senator,” Tynnra Pamlo said, leaning forward onto the conference table and propping her elbows on it. “I know it’s unpleasant, but . . . the University of Alderaan will likely be receptive to the idea, at least if it comes from you.” The Tarisian senator paused and wrung her hands together. “I’m sorry, sir. If we’re going to suggest universities raise their own funding, Alderaan seems like the best place to start.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Senator Shaelas’ droid translated over the speech of the Selkath. 

Bail nodded, a slight frown crossing his face. “A vote, then?” he offered to the room. “Who’s in favor of pursuing the fundraising plan?” All hands, including Bail’s, confidently shot upward. “And who believes we should begin by making this request of the University of Alderaan?” 

Fourteen hands went up in unison; Bail gingerly raised his own to join the group only after it was apparent that he’d not be talking anyone down from this. “Very well,” he said. “It’s settled. I’ll contact the university soon to work out details. You’re all dismissed.” 

The shuffling of flimsiplast notes and datapads accompanied the sound of chairs around the conference table scooting back. Senators around the room stood and made for the exit; Fosc Fey’lya glared at Bail as he left, the icy stare sending a chill down the latter’s spine. 

The room cleared of everyone but him, Bail Organa slouched in his seat and resumed his staring out the window.

 

* * *

  
  


“Welcome back, sir. How was the meeting?” 

A sly smile crept up Bail’s face. The administrative staffer seated at the small desk in his office reception area matched the expression, then spoke again: “No, never mind, I’m not sure I want to know.” 

“I’m getting another free drink from Senator Limpan, if that tells you anything,” Bail said. The staffer chuckled as he swept his gaze across his office space. The reception area was modestly furnished—Bail had insisted it be after having spent two years working in the excessive opulence of the Executive Office suite. A projected panoramic of Alderaan’s capital city skyline arced across the length of one wall—the image was a timelapse, designed to change throughout the day in reflection of the local time. The panoramic was bright now; the sun hung high in Alderaan’s blue sky, as it was early afternoon here in Coruscant’s capital city. 

A small handful of doors lined the room’s perimeter. Set into the left side of the back wall was a darkened transparisteel slab labeled  _ Chief of Staff _ . The room beyond that door was yet again vacant. It had become a joke amongst Bail’s staff that the position was cursed. Though Bail was not a superstitious man himself, he couldn’t deny that he’d had an extraordinarily hard time keeping someone in the chief of staff job for longer than a year or two. It had remained unfilled for several months after he’d stepped down as Chancellor, and had recently been vacated by a member of his wife’s royal court who had left Alderaan only to temporarily fill the role. 

On the right of the rear wall, a door of transparisteel was etched with the words  _ Head of Security _ —and, one line below that, the name  _ Amidala _ . The office beyond the door was dark. Bail’s security chief was on vacation, though she’d declined to tell him exactly where she was going. He had chosen not to press the issue— _ ”So long as you come back in one piece,”  _ he’d joked as she left. The look Padmé had given him in response had been a bit unsettling, as if  _ not  _ coming back in one piece was a distinct possibility. 

The center of the rear wall held the largest door—a carved slab of white material reminiscent of Alderaanian architecture, the entry to Bail’s own office. He stared, perhaps a bit too long, as if trying to gaze into the space beyond the door.

“She’s already here, sir. I went ahead and let her in,” the administrative staffer offered.

“Sorry?” Bail asked, his wandering thoughts returning to the present. 

“Your office, sir,” she said, gesturing in the direction Bail had been staring. “Senator Mothma arrived for your meeting. You’ve told me before I should just let her in, so . . .”

“Right, of course,” he replied, shaking his head. “Thanks, Cara.” Bail turned to walk away, strolling toward his office door.

“Certainly sir. Anything else you need before you go in?” 

“Actually, there is,” Bail said, pausing and spinning around to face the young woman. “Could you schedule a conference call with the president of the University of Alderaan?” He hesitated for a moment before continuing: “And Breha. It’d be best if she was there too, I think.”

“Absolutely, Senator,” Cara said with a nod, spinning to face the computer terminal at her desk. Bail nodded back, then whirled around and strode through the door to his office as it automatically slid aside. 

Chandrila’s senator, Mon Mothma, sat within Bail’s office. Robed in white and sipping a steaming mug of tea, the auburn-haired woman smiled faintly at her fellow legislator. Bail wordlessly returned the smile, sitting down not at his desk but at the chair beside Mon Mothma. He took a deep breath, then allowed himself to slouch slightly in his seat. 

“It can’t have been that bad, Bail,” Mon Mothma spoke gently. “Every committee meeting has its ups and downs, Education is hardly any worse than the others.”

“It’s not that,” Bail sighed. “It’s this damn war. Alderaan is apparently a political punching bag, and I’m to blame for it.” When Mon Mothma cocked her head to the side in evident confusion, Bail continued. “Planets are cutting education funding to finance defense. The universities want more money from us, and we haven’t got any to give them. I’m supposed to call the University of Alderaan’s president and ask him to start fundraising so he can return the university’s latest Republic funding package.” 

Mon Mothma nodded solemnly. “I’d heard Theed University was doing something similar. It’s not an unreasonable idea, Bail. And the citizens of Alderaan have the wealth to help the university, by and large.”

“It’s not the fact I have to do it. It’s the reason the rest of the committee thinks I should. It’s because I started the war.”

“Senator Fey’lya likes to hold a grudge,” she said. “His opinion hardly reflects the rest of the Committee’s. Certainly not the entire Senate’s. Nobody blames you anymore, at least not the way they once did. The Confederacy started this war, and they’re the target of most senators’ ire now.”

Sighing in frustration, with himself as much as the situation, Bail rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m being a selfish bastard, of course,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Moaning over money squabbles when you’ve got the war to worry about. Speaking of,” he added, brightening a bit, “how are things going out there? Anything you can share from the latest Defense meeting?” 

Gingerly sipping her mug of steaming tea, Mon Mothma nodded. “Your Jedi friend is a hero again. Typhoon Division destroyed the  _ Lancer  _ station.”

Bail’s eyes widened. “That orbital bombardment platform? That’s wonderful news!” He’d watched the news footage like everyone else, appalled and filled with something like existential terror at the sight of an entire city turned into a smoking crater. For several nights afterward, his dreams had been tinged with visions of Alderaanian cities burning and collapsing, their destruction visible from orbit. “Of course Obi-Wan would be the one to do it, too.” 

“Yes, the Chancellor seemed quite pleased with their performance. The general is on shore leave now, but Palpatine is apparently planning to request that he be briefed before the entire Senate upon his return.”

“He’s bringing a military figure before all of Congress?” Bail asked, raising an eyebrow. “He hasn’t done that since, well. . .”

“He hasn’t done it at all,” the senator from Chandrila finished for him. “It’s unusual, yes. All Palpatine would say is that he has a significant assignment for General Kenobi. Something the Senate needs to be aware of.”

“An assignment for Typhoon Division, you mean?” Bail corrected.

“No, for Obi-Wan specifically,” Mon said. “He was very clear about that.”

Bail inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly through his nose. He couldn’t help but frown. The politician who had once spoken to him in thinly-veiled threats, who had in no uncertain terms declared his distaste for the Jedi, had an assignment  _ just  _ for Obi-Wan Kenobi?

“Did he give the committee any hint as to what it might be?” he asked aloud.

Mon shook her head. “Said we would find out ‘in due time.’” 

_ This,  _ Bail thought, _ is not good. _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: DURO** _

The Core world of Duro is home to the Duros species, and is perhaps most notable for being completely uninhabitable. The once-temperate climate was ravaged by aggressive industrialization in the era shortly after the Duros achieved spaceflight. As the planet’s environment became more and more hostile, a significant number of Duros fled to the nearby world of Corellia.

However, a faction of Duros determined not to let go of their homeworld stayed behind and—with the help of the Corellians and their advanced shipbuilding facilities—began constructing an orbital habitation platform. Dubbed Bburru Station by the Duros, this orbital city became the first of many circling the planet; though twenty orbital cities now exist above Duro, the original serves as the capital city of the Duros people. 

Though up-and-coming Duros politicians frequently champion the idea of fixing the planet’s polluted state through some sort of terraforming effort, every attempt at a restoration project has ultimately been abandoned. Proponents of the idea point to the complete transformation of once-hostile Outer Rim world Telos IV into a successful farming colony. In response, the project’s opponents point to the extreme cost of restoration  as well as the ideal living situations of the orbital cities. Duro’s orbital platforms are self-contained ecosystems that feature unique plant life, artificial lakes, and solar-powered drives that keep them aloft and provide power to every resident. The Duros government considers the orbital cities a permanent solution to their planet’s pollution problem.


	7. Broken Lancer

The immense hologram in the center of the boardroom cast a gentle blue glow across the pale skin of Sephone Valis. She sat at the end of a semicircular table—nine seats ran along the outer edge, each one occupied by a member of the Confederacy of Independent Systems Executive Board. A grandiose emblem hung on the wall behind the table, bearing the Confederacy’s new motto—”Per Profectum Contra,” which Valis understood to roughly mean “progress through opposition.” The inner edge of the conference table’s arc cradled a holoprojector which was currently displaying a massive map of the galaxy. The territory secured by the CIS had been shaded a cobalt blue hue. 

The Corporate Sector, a cluster of planets at one corner of the Outer Rim, was by far the largest pocket of space the Confederacy could call its own. Other clusters did exist—a sizeable pocket around Kamino, their shipyard at Sluis Van, the handful of planets the  _ Lancer  _ station had managed to bring under Confederate control—but they were far too spread out. Moving her fleets through space had become an arduous chore; it seemed that every time they dropped out of hyperspace, Republic patrols were ready and waiting. It was never anything more than a minor inconvenience—a few dusted fighters, or the shields brought down on a frigate—and though Valis was proud to say she’d never lost a capital ship to the patrols, she longed for the day where the Confederacy controlled major hyperlane intersections. Then they could move through space unimpeded—and impede the movements of the Republic fleets.

After two years of all-out war, she’d thought she’d feel more . . .  _ satisfied _ . As though she’d accomplished something. Instead everything had come piecemeal.  _ Both in battle and in this damned boardroom. _

Valis stared at the hovering galaxy map, mentally tracing trade routes and hyperspace corridors, trying to plan her next angle of attack. Unfortunately, the days of her calling all the shots were gone. The organization formerly known as the Galactic Confederacy now had a proper governing body, and the Executive Board had only grown more meddlesome as of late. The admiral had no doubt as to why—a few key members of the board were a bit too fond of their new toy, the  _ Lancer  _ orbital bombardment station. 

Chief among them was Welleth Mekosk, the president of Czerka Arms Corporation who had somehow weaseled his way into the position of the Confederacy’s Chief Executor. The human sat at the center of the curved conference table, currently engaged in an argument with another board member over proper use of the  _ Lancer _ . 

“We have created a weapon that can capture a planet without firing a single shot!” he said, waving his hands wildly as if to accentuate his point. “Why  _ wouldn’t  _ we use it at every opportunity?” 

“All I’m saying, Executor, is that sooner or later the Republic will call our bluff,” an Ithorian woman said, the vibrating undertones of her voice reverberating through the conference room. “They’ll have a fleet ready and refuse to surrender, and we’ll have to pull the trigger again. We still haven’t finished rebuilding the city of Lapis. I don’t want to have to commit additional manpower to reconstruction on another world.” 

“Overseer Habat is right,” the Devaronian Kir’zas Dront said, leaning forward into the conference table and sweeping her hair aside with one hand. “What good are captured planets if their capital cities remain craters for months?” 

Executor Mekosk straightened in his chair and turned towards one end of the table. “Admiral Valis,” he began, ignoring the objections of Habat and Dront, “you’ve been quiet so far. Where do you think we should use the  _ Lancer  _ next?”

Valis took a deep breath and turned to face the Executor. “I’ve made my thoughts on the  _ Lancer  _ rather clear, sir. I’m committed to performing traditional planetary assaults whenever possible. The  _ Lancer  _ is a short-term solution, useful only in the Mid and Outer Rims. As soon as we move in towards the Core, we’re going to come up against a planet with a shield around it, and the  _ Lancer _ ’s projectile is going to bounce right off. You want to capture more planets, we need more warships and more clones. It’s as simple as that.”

She  _ hated _ this part. Hated having to couch her answers in faux-respectful sentences, rather than simply telling Mekosk outright what she thought of his glorified planetary popgun. At least with Maul she could speak freely, no matter his other frustrations.

“The planetary shielding problem is being researched,” the Executor huffed, leaning back slightly and furrowing his brow. Abandoning the pretense of seeking out her opinion, he turned to face another member of the board—a green-skinned, serpentine Sluissi woman. “Miss Threll, there is progress in that regard, is there not?” 

Psoriss Threll, Archon of the Sluis Van Shipyards, nodded slightly. “Yes, though upgrading the  _ Lancer  _ so it can pierce planetary shields would require bringing it in for retrofit work. Moving it back to Sluis Van risks it getting destroyed along the way, and the work would have it out of commission for several weeks.”

“I’d like to voice my support for the use of the  _ Lancer,”  _ a distorted voice sounded above the rest. It was Wat Tambor, foreman of the Techno Union, speaking through the bulky pressure suit that kept him alive when off his homeworld. “It represents a great achievement of the Confederacy’s cooperation. There’s no reason to toss it aside now; we’ve only begun to realize its potential.”

_ Kiss-ass as always, Tambor,  _ Admiral Valis thought to herself, restraining her eyes from rolling upward. Whenever it came time for the board to vote on something, she could always count on Wat Tambor voting in step with the Executor. 

“I’ll second that,” another voice said as a skeletal hand rose into the air. Quoris Vaun was the president of Muunilist Wealth Management. The alien, who had splintered away from the InterGalactic Banking Clan in order to join the CIS, was quick to remind the rest of the board that much of the Confederacy’s infrastructure would not be here were it not for his monetary support. 

“The  _ Lancer  _ has, thus far, been underutilized considering how much of an investment it was,” the Muun continued. “Its weaknesses are irrelevant; it can still be used to capture much of the Outer Rim. I think the Executor had the right idea when he suggested we scale back clone production. The  _ Lancer  _ is the future of the Confederacy.”

_ When he suggested we  _ what _?  _ Valis thought as she shot forward in her chair, eyes wide. She snapped her gaze to the center of the conference table, where Executor Mekosk sat staring down into his lap.

The admiral clenched a fist. A cutback on troop production was the last thing she needed—the whole point of clone soldiers were that they were  _ disposable _ , and the Confederacy had been treating them as such, throwing them at the front lines to overwhelm the enemy through sheer numbers. Such a strategy required constant fresh reserves. The Executor, his idiocy aside, had to know that. And he had secretly been planning to hamstring those reserves behind the board’s back.

“Excuse me?!” a new voice snapped. Across the semicircle from Valis, seated at the other end of the table, was a pale-skinned and slender alien. The gracefully lengthy limbs and wide, reflective eyes belonged to a Kaminoan: Ruala Yi. Valis, who’d been opening her own mouth to speak, was surprised to hear Yi speak at all—she normally kept to herself during board meetings. But now she was standing out of her chair, the full seven feet of her height towering over the other board members. 

“Prime Minister,” began an uneasy Meksosk—he reached out a hand toward the Kaminoan, motioning for her to sit back down.

“Don’t ‘Prime Minister’ me,” Yi shot back, her voice still smooth and level despite her apparent anger. “We’re just finalizing production on a new generation of clone soldier, and you want to  _ cut back _ ? To waste our efforts at Had Abbadon—”

Valis jumped slightly as a  _ clatter  _ rang throughout the boardroom. The Executor had stood up to match the position of Ruala Yi, his chair shooting backwards into the wall as he’d done so. Instinctively, her hand snapped down to her belt, but she stopped when she realized she had left her weapon belt in her cabin. She shook her head slightly—drawing a blaster wouldn’t have made things better, and drawing her  _ other  _ weapon certainly would have made them worse.

“Had Abbadon was a failure!” the Executor hissed, leaning forward into the conference table. “It should have been a grand entrance, the first thing that showed the Republic we were a real threat. Several of us sunk our own money into making that day happen. And nothing came of it.”

“Perhaps,” Valis spoke up, hearing the simmering outrage beneath her voice, “if you’d  _ publicly _ declared your financial support for the cause prior to Had Abbadon, the Republic would have been wary enough not to scuttle our plans with a damn declaration of war!”

Face flushing crimson, Mekosk opened his mouth to fire back at her, but before he could do so, the Prime Minister of Kamino seemed to grow even taller, raising her voice confidently as she spoke. “The mission was not entirely a failure. Warlord Maul recovered a specimen—”

Belatedly, Mekosk found his tongue. “A specimen you  _ still  _ have not delivered results on. You’re what, eighteen months behind schedule?”

“The first round of troops is nearly ready for deployment, Executor.”

“That first round may also be the last round, Prime Minister.” Mekosk gestured toward the Muun banker sitting a few chairs down from him. “Vaun is right. The  _ Lancer  _ station is the future of the Confederacy.” 

_ “Was  _ the future of the Confederacy.” 

At this new voice, Valis felt a familiar chill roll across her skin. She turned slowly to face the boardroom’s door. Standing in the entryway was a Zabrak, his face tattooed with flames of red and black, horns sprouting from his shaved head—one was more jagged than the rest, and smaller, though the asymmetry only added to the creature’s threatening nature. His black cloak fluttered behind him as he stepped fully into the conference room. 

“The Republic destroyed it,” Valis muttered. As every other member of the Executive Board turned to face her, it dawned on the admiral that she’d said those words out loud. Somehow she’d just  _ known,  _ as if the information had been imparted to her mind directly—but it wouldn’t do to let the rest of the Board think that. “Didn't they?” she added, morphing her statement into a question directed at the Zabrak.

“The entire station,” he growled back, “is nothing but a lump of slag. The commanding officer was captured alive—”

At this, the board members erupted in anger. “Forthos could identify every one of us!” Quoris Vaun shouted, his skeletal hand clenching into a fist. 

“They already know you’re involved, Vaun. This is far worse for me!” came a complaint from a human man seated a few chairs down from Valis: Camos Novarr, head of an agricultural corporation that had thus far been secretly supplying food to the Confederacy. 

“Another failure of your damn wetworks, Yi,” Welleth Mekosk sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at the Kaminoan Prime Minister. 

“Wait,” Ruala Yi said, gently holding up a hand to silence the bickering board members. When it didn’t work, she slammed a fist on the table and raised her voice to a much greater volume than Valis had assumed the Prime Minister was capable of. “Hold on!” Everyone froze and turned to stare at the Kaminoan; when the room had been silent for a few moments, she turned to face the Zabrak standing in the center of the conference table’s arc.

“Lord Maul,” Yi began, drawing out her words as she spoke, “exactly who attacked the  _ Lancer _ ?”

Maul raised his head slowly, his jaundiced eyes meeting Yi’s. “I think you know who.” 

The news seemed to suck the life out of the room. Valis watched as Executor Mekosk collapsed backwards into his chair and placed a palm against his forehead.

“Admiral,” he muttered, his hands ever-so-slightly shaking, “get back out there and retaliate. Now.” 

Valis rose to her feet without a word, stepping down from the elevated conference table. Maul whirled to face the room’s exit, cloak fluttering around him as he marched towards the door. As the remainder of the board settled back into their seats, Valis kept her gaze focused outward. She did not look back as their chatter resumed, instead exiting the room directly behind Maul.

 

* * *

 

“That was some show.”

“I thought you’d be happier,” Maul said flatly, glancing up briefly from the small shard of rock he was rolling between his fingers. Valis wordlessly furrowed her brow at the Sith Lord who sat—irritatingly calmly, she thought—flippantly slouched in the lone chair set in his meditation chamber. The chamber hadn’t changed much since her fateful visit after Had Abbadon—though she visited more often, and the once-familiar chill was mostly gone. 

Gone, too, were the jagged obsidian formations around the perimeter of the circular chamber. Dust was all that remained of them, scattered around the chamber where the stones had once sat. Dust, and the singular shard of the rock Maul now held pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

Valis ignored the Zabrak’s jab. “You’ve got some nerve, barging into a meeting like that. Flaunting that Kenobi and Skywalker blew up the Board’s ridiculous toy.”

“So you  _ are  _ glad it’s gone,” he said, flashing her a rotted grin. “Good. This does, after all,” Maul continued, leaning forward slightly toward his apprentice, “present us with an opportunity.” 

“It’s too soon,” Valis said with a shake of her head. “We’re not ready.”

“You best prepare quickly, then. The station’s destruction has provided us with a window to act.”

“How so?”

“If we are to start this mission together, we will need to explain our absence to the Board,” Maul said. “And, of course, my master. We will have to lie, and we must tell the same lie to both.” 

“Of course,” Valis grumbled. “Mekosk will report whatever we say back to your master.”  
Maul nodded. “The stories must match.”

Valis shifted her weight to her back foot and crossed her arms. “Interesting. You have a story in mind, then?”

Interlocking his fingers and placing his elbows on his knees, Maul hunched forward even further. “Mekosk asked you to retaliate. But we cannot strike directly against Kenobi and Skywalker. The general is too high-profile—heavily guarded, and spending much of his time in the Core. He’s untouchable, and Skywalker is at his side constantly. But we can still hit them in a way that hurts them both.”

“Go on,” Valis said, drawing out the words. 

“They are untouchable. The Jedi outpost in the Mid Rim, however, is not.”

“What Jedi outpost in the Mid Rim?”

A sly smile tugged at the corners of Maul’s mouth. Uncurling his fingers, he gestured slightly at his apprentice. “Exactly.” 

At this, Valis couldn’t help but contain a slight exhale that bordered on a breathy laugh.  _ He’s really thought this through,  _ she thought, not sure whether to be impressed or a bit scared—even after two years, it still seemed unnatural when Maul demonstrated a strategic capability. His eyes were still those of the pacing animal he’d been, until whatever had happened on Had Abbadon had altered him.

“The Board won’t know it doesn’t exist,” the admiral said with a nod.  “What about your master?”

“He will have no way to confirm that it doesn’t.” Maul leaned back in his seat. “And the thought of several Jedi deaths means he won’t care one way or the other.”

“I better go back and speak to the Board, then.” 

The Sith Lord nodded. “Go. I have a call to make as well.”

 

* * *

  
  


Darth Maul stood before the holoprojector in his chamber, his finger hesitantly hovering over the activation switch. He’d had plenty of tense encounters with his Sith master in the years that they’d worked together, but the call he was about to make was different. 

This was the first time he was going to lie to him.

Swallowing, the Zabrak reached out and punched a button on the projector with an extended finger. In front of and slightly above him, a slightly larger than life blue-tinted figure concealed beneath a cloak appeared

“Lord Sidious,” Maul greeted the figure. He briefly contemplated dropping to a knee and bowing before his master, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Maul had not performed the gesture of respect in years—he certainly hadn’t bowed to Sidious the last time they had spoken. The goal, Maul reminded himself, was to avoid making the Sith Lord suspicious. Bowing would do the opposite.

“ _ Darth Maul _ .” The voice from the projection was slightly gravelly; Maul chose to attribute this to the transmission’s slight distortion. Harder to ignore was the almost disapproving tone Sidious took, as if he was annoyed to be speaking to his apprentice. “ _ What is it? _ ”

 

* * *

 

“You asked me to retaliate,” Valis said as she stood in her office. A miniature projection of the Executive Board’s conference table sat on her desk—she knew that on the other side it appeared to her eight fellow board members as though she were standing where Maul had stood when he’d barged into their last meeting.

“Kenobi and Skywalker are . . . untouchable,” she continued, echoing her master’s earlier words. “They travel on a Star Destroyer, surrounded at nearly all times by an entire division of Republic troops. When they are alone, they are in the Core region. We cannot get to them. But we can still strike back where it hurts: the Jedi Order.” Valis suppressed a smirk as the miniature projections of each board member leaned forward with interest. “Maul knows of a Jedi outpost in the Mid Rim. Attack the outpost, and they will notice. Kill the Jedi there, and they will  _ feel  _ it. Maul and I will take the  _ Charybdis _ to the outpost and destroy it from orbit. He will then travel planetside and eliminate any surviving Jedi.”

 

* * *

 

“The Jedi and the Republic are one,” Maul hissed. “Cut one, the other bleeds. We will have our revenge for the  _ Lancer _ .”

“ _ Zealous as ever, Lord Maul, _ ” Sidious said slowly. Maul kept his expression void of the question in his mind—was that  _ suspicion _ in his master’s voice? Or simply his usual air of faint disapproval?

“As you taught me,” Maul replied, hoping this would be enough.

“ _ Yes. One can only hope I taught you well. _ ” Before his apprentice could formulate a reply to this, Sidious spoke again. “ _ You are committed to this, then? _ ”

“Yes, my master.”

“ _ Good,”  _ Sidious said finally, drawing out the word.  _ “Very good, Lord Maul. Let the Force be your strength.” _

“I will report back when I have completed this task,” Maul said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: “Master.”

The hologram fizzled out of existence; as the noise of the dissipating image sounded through Maul’s chambers, so too did the  _ whoosh  _ of an opening door. He did not have to turn around to know who it was. Keeping his back toward Admiral Valis, he turned his head slightly in her direction. “Well?”

“They bought every word of it.” The click of her heels reverberated off the floor. 

“Then we’d best be on our way.” He turned to face his student of the dark side. “I sense fear in you. Uneasiness, uncertainty. These chains will hold you back, Valis.”

She approached the Zabrak, leaning in close to speak. “‘Through victory my chains are broken,’ right? I’ll be fine once we start winning battles.” 

“You recite those words, but you don’t believe them. Act confident all you want—I can still sense your distrust.”

“Distrust of what?”

Drawing closer to her in the hint of a threat display, he said, “Of the mission. Of me. Of the Force.”

Something twitched in her face—barely perceptible, to someone who didn’t know her. “The Force seems to be favoring our enemies, Maul. Of course I don’t trust it to suddenly come alongside us when we set out alone like this. Like I said, I’ll be fine once we’ve won something. Now if you’ll excuse me”—she spun on one heel and began marching towards the door—”I should get back to the bridge. I’ve a ship to command.” The door slid shut behind her, leaving Darth Maul standing alone in the center of the room, thinking.

A few months into her training—after their trip to Korriban, after she’d demanded Maul show her something real—he’d briefly thought her past this. His own pilgrimage there with his master had certainly erased whatever wavering doubts he might have had about his place in the dark side— _ Not without its price, _ he thought as he rolled the shard of obsidian between his fingers and stared at the dust on his floor,  _ but necessary. _ But Valis . . .

She wasn’t a Sith. She was playacting at it—to placate him, to earn his trust, to feed her own tentative attraction to the power within. But when she thought of how she would bring the Republic down, she thought of the Confederacy.

Lifting his lips from his teeth in disgust, Maul tossed the bit of stone aside, staring into something past what he could see.

Before half a minute had passed, he was pacing from one end of the room to the other.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: OLYMPUS, ACROPOLIS OF THE CONFEDERACY** _

The Confederacy of Independent Systems seems to lack a centralized planetary capital. Whether this is out of necessity or by choice is unclear; whatever the case may be, the CIS Executive Board appears to govern out of a mobile space station that is never in the same place for more than a day. 

Republic Intelligence droneships have captured only limited glances at the space station, which bears the name “Olympus, Acropolis of the Confederacy.” It is capable of housing the CIS fleet’s flagship  _ Charybdis  _ in a dry dock, and seems to be outfitted to defend itself in space combat. Several dozen clusters of turbolaser batteries line the surface, and point-defense laser cannons guard each of the three visible hangar bays. 

The aesthetic design of the station matches that of much of the Confederacy’s recent fleet, lending credence to the theory that it was constructed at least partially at Sluis Van Shipyards. The secession of Sluis Van from the Galactic Republic has made acquiring detailed technical plans of the space station all but impossible. 


	8. Twin Suns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To our readers, thanks for following along with us! Just a note that starting today, the story will be switching from daily updates to our usual twice-weekly schedule; new chapters will arrive every Monday and Thursday.

Cody had expressed some concern when Obi-Wan told him where he was headed for his vacation. “That deep into the Outer Rim, on a non-Republic world . . . leaves you very vulnerable, sir,” he’d said, before offering up a couple of Typhoon soldiers to serve as incognito protection.

Obi-Wan had chuckled, waved off the offer, and replied, “Believe me, Cody, I’ll be quite all right. Not even the Confederacy has any interest in Tatooine.”

This had been putting it mildly, the general thought to himself as step after step kicked up miniature clouds of dust and sand. No interplanetary government had approached the desert hellhole in centuries—the closest thing it had to a monarch was a gangster who’d been forced out of Hutt Space by his own and set up shop on the closest available backwater. Even if the clones were to push all the way to Coruscant, Tatooine would still be left on its own.

Grimacing, Obi-Wan spat out a mouthful of sand that had wafted upward into his face on a sudden gust of wind. Should have brought a breathing mask, but looking like a tourist, he’d been told, was the last thing one wanted in Anchorhead, even when it was relatively tame for a Tatooine port city.  _ Do tourists even  _ come _ to this place?  _ he thought to himself, squinting through the drafts of grit and panning his head around the street.

There were certainly a plethora of beings ambling from squat stone building to squat stone building, but they all seemed to have gone native—wrapped in ponchos and robes blasted the same few shades of brown a grey by the heat and the sand, auras giving off intense wariness. The  _ actual _ natives, the Jawas, scuttled here and there, examining droids and speeders; Obi-Wan could have sworn he watched one make off with someone else’s astromech at one point, but decided to keep this to himself.

He continued to walk, grateful that his boots were at least high enough to avoid filling with sand. His ride had told him she’d pick him up at the docking bay, but he hadn’t encountered her there, and the heat of the planet’s twin suns was positively blistering. Until he heard from her, he needed to find someplace that was dark and cool.

If nothing else, there was a fair amount of shade cast by the various awnings and coverings that hung over marketplace stalls clustered around the spaceport. Water and fruit seemed to be the main attractions—Obi-Wan took a look at the price tag over a basket of melons and gave a low whistle.  _ Should have smuggled some past customs, I could have made a small fortune selling on the street. Enough to get the CIS shuttle removed from my hangar on the  _ Coelacanth _ , anyway.  _

Leaning casually away from an alien as it tried to pick his pocket, he thought,  _ I wonder what Alma would have made of all this _ . No doubt his sister would have put a good face on the experience, as was her way, but Obi-Wan was grateful she hadn’t had to. Selfish as he knew it was, he wouldn’t have wanted to see her buried here, body turning to dust underneath an infinite sea of sand. Alderaan was where she’d belonged.

_ Best get that kind of thought out of your system now.  _ Owen, the Jedi had a fairly big hunch, wouldn’t take kindly to it.

“Obi-Wan?  _ Obi-Wan _ !”

Whipping his head around—and catching an eyeful of grit for his trouble—Obi-Wan scanned the vicinity for the person who’d called his name. After a few seconds, he caught sight of her—a short human woman waving a hand back and forth, smiling. She was young—only a few years older than him—and the planet had not yet aged her the way it had aged some of the other humans Obi-Wan had watched pass by, their skin wrinkled and hard like aged leather. Her face was one he’d only seen a handful of times, and those via hologram. In person was better—there was a vitality present that the blue-tinged scanlines tended to leach out.

“Ah, Beru!”

Waving back, he strode over to her, then realized when he was a few paces away that he didn’t quite know what to do. Beru immediately covered the awkwardness, wrapping him up in a quick hug and then stepping back to look at him. “Well, you’re a bit more banged up than the last time we saw each other.”

“Yes, well, a war will tend to do that,” he replied, rubbing at his beard ruefully—it was freshly trimmed to remove some scorched patches. “You look . . . good.”

“For a moisture farmer?” she asked, and then giggled at the panicked expression that he wasn’t able to prevent from bubbling up onto his face. “I look terrible, but thanks, General.” Pausing to look around, she said, “Well, I parked the speeder at a repair shop on the outskirts of town—I know the owners, and Owen and I find it’s best not to leave things sitting around Anchorhead if you want to hold onto them. Do you mind the walk?”

“Not at all,” he replied, though inwardly he hoped the mild sandstorm they seemed to be standing in would die down before they’d gotten too far. “Lead the way.”

They fell into step together, Obi-Wan doing his best to match his strides to Beru’s shorter legs. “So how are things on the farm?” he asked. “If every day here is like this, I’m stunned you manage to harvest any moisture at all.”

“Well, we don’t exactly just stand around holding up buckets and waiting,” she replied. If Padmé had said it it would have been a jibe, but Beru said it teasingly, as though he were in on the joke. “Actually, it’s been a good season for us so far. Owen’s managed to get the vaporators working more efficiently—just a few milliliters per day more, but it adds up. And we’re going to be able to pick up a new droid unit from the Jawas next time they roll around, which will help with productivity.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Obi-Wan said. He meant it, but the trepidation in his tone made the sentiment sound hollow. Clearing his throat, he said, “And, ah . . . how is Owen?”

Beru paused to look down at a Jawa beggar who sat curled beneath a cockeyed umbrella, trying its best to shield itself from the sun. Gently, she placed a few local coins in its bowl and smiled, before rising back up and resuming their walk. “Poor things don’t do too well in the cities. Oh, he’s Owen. You know him, not exactly committed to being happy.” She quickly made another smile, but the effort behind it was noticeable. “He worries. Like I said, we’re doing very well, but there’s talk of the Tuskens encroaching on farmland again.” Lowering her voice as though her husband might somehow hear, she added, “Owen set up a vaporator pretty far out a month or so ago; the next morning, he said there were some marks on it where someone had taken a couple of shots.”

“Are you concerned for your safety?” Obi-Wan asked, somewhat alarmed.

“Oh, I’m not so much myself. If they’d really been angry they would have uprooted the whole vaporator; Owen thinks they were just warning him to stay away.”

The two of them hastily ducked to one side to avoid a swoop bike that careened drunkenly down the street, unmuffled engine shrieking. Once the ringing in Obi-Wan’s ears had died to an acceptable level, Beru resumed: “And Jabba the Hutt always has people worried. Mostly he sticks to the Dune Sea, leaves the flatlands alone, but just having him around is enough to make us uneasy.” Shrugging, she looked back at the general and said, “But still, it’s a life. And the Republic has plenty of its own problems, from what I hear.”

This, at least, was familiar ground. “Things could be better,” Obi-Wan admitted. “It’s not so much that we’re losing as that we’re not winning  _ enough _ . The clones keep gaining. It used to be a trickle. Now it’s . . . more of a stream.” Lowering his head as a gust of wind tossed up sand, he added, “Oh! That reminds me.”

Carefully looking around to make sure no one seedy-looking was too close by, the Jedi reached under his outer cloak and slowly pulled out a cool metal cylinder.

Gingerly, Beru accepted the proffered tube, flinching in surprise as her fingers brushed it. “What is it?”

“Self-refrigerating, self-purifying thermos.” Now that he’d given it to her, the present seemed lame, maybe even condescending; Obi-Wan could feel himself starting to wilt a little. “I thought it might be useful when you or Owen are out working on a particularly hot day; I’ve got a second one for him as well. They’ll keep liquid chilled for up to a month even when exposed to direct sunlight, and filter out all impurities. There’s some Alderaanian springwater inside each, I thought it might be good. It’s probably silly, of course—”

He was interrupted by Beru wrapping him in another hug—the warmth of her embrace should have been uncomfortable in the midst of the already baking sun, but instead felt . . . nice. “It’s wonderful,” she said, pressing her arms around him harder before letting go. “Thank you.” Genuine gratitude radiated off her presence.

Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan said, “I should warn you that they’re not exactly legal—they’re new Republic military gear, and I managed to talk my ship’s supplier into misplacing a couple.”

Letting out a giggle, Beru swept her arm to encompass the dingy avenue they strolled down—sand-blasted buildings, moldering inhabitants, rusted vehicles. “If you think the Republic cares to come all the way down here to fine us, I can return them.”

 

* * *

 

She’d parked the speeder just outside a cluster of three buildings at the edge of the city; a handful of other speeders and swoop bikes were dotted around the perimeter. Several humans sat on the windshield of a family-sized transport, laughing and passing around a bottle of something that looked like dirty water; all of them looked to be in high school.

“It’s not a repair shop so much as an excuse for teenagers to blow off steam,” Beru explained to Obi-Wan as they clambered into the two-seater landspeeder. “Hung out around here a lot myself when I was younger.” A small smile rising to her face, she said, “I don’t feel old at all, but I’m told all the kids around here now consider me and Owen to be middle-aged. That still hasn’t stopped seeming weird.” Gunning the speeder’s motor, she continued, “Okay, let’s get you home.”

With the landspeeder’s windshield diverting the sand from his eyes, Obi-Wan was able to take a better look at the landscape of Tatooine. There was a certain stark quality that one could get used to, he supposed—it could even be a nice change if you were from Coruscant and hated the eternal city rising up around you. And something about the two suns drifting through the sky was weirdly hypnotic, though the general was careful not to look at them directly.

The speeder whooshed by a cluster of some large, furry somethings, too quickly for Obi-Wan to clearly make them out. “Local wildlife?” he asked.

“Womp rats,” Beru replied, easing into a turn. “Nuisances, mostly—had one get into a vaporator and break it open for the water inside last year. Owen was furious.”

“Speaking of that . . .” For a few moments he was silent. “It was very kind of you to invite me out here, and it’s wonderful to see you in person. But if Owen doesn’t want me here, I’m more than happy to head back to Anchorhead and return home. He doesn’t like me very much, I know, and—”

“Oh, he hates you,” she cut him off, her tone one of pleasant agreement. “But he needs you too, and I think part of him knows that.” Keeping her gaze fixed on the trail ahead of them, she continued, “It’s been hard for him. I don’t blame him, mind you—he loved Alma, doesn’t mean he loves me any less. But I can’t . . . I can only do so much for him.” As they came upon a relatively flat stretch, she turned her glance toward Obi-Wan. “I never knew her. Never loved her. For all your differences, you two have that in common. He needs to talk about your sister with  _ some _ one.” She returned her eyes to the windshield. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But he didn’t try to stop me when I left to pick you up, that’s not the worst sign.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Obi-Wan settled on replying, ending it with a quiet sigh. In a way, of course, she was. And yet . . .

Yes, he and Owen had both loved Alma. But, if Obi-Wan were being honest,  _ had _ applied much more strongly in his case. Of course he still thought about her. Staged imaginary conversations with her. Missed her. But it had been a decade since she’d died, and in that time, he’d let her go. In one sense, he simply didn’t have time for memories these days—the war kept everyone on the brink of perpetual exhaustion, and he had to keep up with Anakin’s teaching as well as leading Typhoon Division.

But beyond that . . . she wasn’t really gone. The construct that was  _ Alma Kenobi _ no longer existed, but she was everywhere around him, her building blocks forming new life and flowing into the Force. In death, she would live forever.

Owen couldn’t accept that. At the time of Alma’s funeral, Obi-Wan had tried to explain things—this had ended with him on the floor and his sister’s widower storming away with a bloodied fist. It was the last time they’d seen each other in person.

“It’s not just Alma,” Beru said, pulling him out of his reverie. “It’s the war. Not that it touches us out here, but you still worry about what would happen if the clones decided to come for our door. And seeing your name plastered everywhere . . . he’d never admit it, but I do think he worries about you. Besides me, you’re the closest thing to family he still has.”

They both considered this in silence, as sand dunes streamed past. “If he kicks you out of the house,” Beru added, “you can sleep in the garage. Gets far too cold out here for you to leave.” Brightening, she exclaimed, “Ah, speaking of the house.”

Looking back out the windshield, Obi-Wan saw a domed dwelling rising out of the sand. It was small, barely a house at all—but, he knew, most of their home would be underground, to preserve as much coolness as possible. The sands around the dome were dotted with miniature spires extending toward the sky—moisture vaporators. A compact roving platform that must have been the new droid Beru had mentioned trundled between them. And bent down, fiddling with one a hundred yards or so away, was a human male who had to be Owen.

As the speeder slowed to a stop, Obi-Wan felt anxiety make a fist in his stomach. Not exactly the same anxiety he’d felt on the crustbuster a few days ago, but in that family.

“Owen!” Beru called as the whine of the speeder’s engine faded away. “We’re back!”

The distant shape raised an arm in a dismissive gesture, then returned to whatever it was doing.

Rolling her eyes, Beru took the general by the arm. “Here, come inside, have something to drink. He’ll be inside when he’s done.”

As she led him toward the domed entrance, Obi-Wan kept his eyes on Owen’s hunched-over form. He could make out a shock of hair—much grayer than the last time they’d seen each other, as if the sand had leached the color out of it and reduced it to a dusty brown-gray. Cautiously extending his perceptions, he reached out for the other man and felt . . .

Evasion, first and foremost. An attempt at not getting annoyed that was falling apart by the second, and below that a roiling anger that was almost . . . satisfied. As if Owen were bitter enough that the opportunity to see the object of bitterness gave him a certain masochistic pleasure.

And below that, at the core of his being, was deep, deep grief. It was how he’d felt at the funeral.

For a moment, Owen raised his head slightly higher. Obi-Wan hastily withdrew his senses, and immediately felt shame wash over him. The other man would view it as an invasion of privacy, had he known what his former brother-in-law had been doing. And he wouldn’t be wrong.

_ Well, this is off to a wonderful start. _

Shaking his head, he turned, ducked slightly to avoid hitting himself on the doorway, and followed Beru down below.

 

* * *

 

The homestead was a central hub open the elements, ringed by rooms of various shapes and sizes, including a couple of bedrooms, a storage room, and a kitchen; if put together, Obi-Wan guessed, they’d be about the size of a large apartment. “You’ll be staying in this one,” Beru said as they entered the guest bedroom. “Washroom is next door, if you want to get cleaned up.”

Alas, the washroom contained no actual water, but the sonic shower was enough to blast most of the sand out of the hollows in his skin it had wedged itself into. The Jedi stayed in the stall far longer than was probably polite, scouring himself as clean as possible before donning his clothes and opening the door.  _ If I’m lucky,  _ he thought as he hit the release button for the slab of rusted metal,  _ Owen will still be cleaning up and I’ll get some time to think— _

As the door swept open, Obi-Wan looked down and saw a pair of sand-blasted boots waiting on the other side.  _ Oh. Well then. _

The other man looked viscerally surprised as the door swept upward far enough to reveal his face, as though he’d somehow convinced himself Obi-Wan wasn’t here in the half hour since he’d arrived. Surprise quickly gave way to expressionlessness, a hatch slamming closed behind the moisture farmer’s eyes. “Well,” he said simply, his gaze hardening. “You made it.”

Taking in Owen’s entire being rather than the back of his head, Obi-Wan was secretly relieved that the other man hadn’t aged quite so badly as he’d feared. True, the farmer’s hair was almost entirely gray, but his face, if not exactly youthful in appearance, was still the one the Jedi remembered—a few extra crags here and there, but the whole was the same. Obi-Wan could only wonder what Owen thought of  _ his _ appearance—when they’d last seen each other, the Jedi still hadn’t had a beard. Not, he was sure, that Owen cared.

“Erm,” he said belatedly, realizing he and Owen had simply been staring at each other for several moments, “yes. I was very glad Beru was able to pick me up.” He let that hang in the air for a while, and then, when it was clear no response was forthcoming, began, “How are you d—”

“If you’ll just let me through,” the moisture farmer said quickly, “I need to get this damn sand off.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.” Wincing as Owen averted his eyes from his own, Obi-Wan scrambled from the doorway. A few seconds later, the door had slammed closed behind him.

_ Well,  _ he considered to himself, standing in bemusement for a few moments before ambling in the direction of the kitchen Beru had shown him,  _ I didn’t get punched in the face this time. That’s something. _

Dinner was some kind of bean paste, by the looks of things, along with some local variants on bread and cheese. When Obi-Wan asked if he could help with preparations, Beru shooed him out of the kitchen, insisting that he’d already had a long journey and should just relax.

“Relaxing” wound up being wandering around the garage, looking at the various blinking wall displays and trying to guess what they did. Besides the landspeeder he and Beru had arrived in, Obi-Wan spotted a couple of Treadwell droids rolling around, chittering to themselves in the machine language that Anakin somehow understood. He studied their interactions for a few minutes, a mechanical version of birdwatching; then, growing tired, he strode over to the far side of the garage and watched a series of glowing hexagons slowly change color. The movement became oddly soothing after a while;  _ Wouldn’t be the worst meditation aid,  _ the general thought, moving a bit closer to the glow.

“Don’t touch those,” a voice said from behind the Jedi. “You’ll ruin the environmental settings, we spent weeks trying to tune them right when we first moved in.” 

Whirling around, hastily pulling his hands far out of reach of the wall, Obi-Wan saw Owen standing in the doorway, his solid frame filling it. “Sorry,” the Jedi said, holding his arms up. “I didn’t mean to . . . you’ve certainly got a good place here.”

Gesturing dismissively, Owen didn’t move from his spot in the doorway. “We’ve fixed it up. Was a damned mess when we picked it up, Jawas had been rooting through it.”

“Do they do that often?”

The moisture farmer made a growling noise of disgust. “If they think they can get away with it, they’ll steal your speeder out from under you while you’re riding it. I’m pretty sure I’ve bought my own condenser parts back from them three times in the last year.” Taking a step forward without seeming to realize it, he added, “Can’t live without ‘em, though. They’re the only ones people can buy working droids from around here, even if they’re stolen more often than not.”

_ Those few sentences are more than he said to me at the funeral. _

As if realizing what had just happened, Owen promptly clammed up. Obi-Wan, keeping silent and watching, made a note:  _ If he thinks you’re being stupid, he’ll explain something to you. As decent as any other conversation starter. _

Clearing his throat, the moisture farmer said, “Beru sent me to tell you the food is ready.” Obi-Wan nodded in appreciation and made his way around the landspeeder; Owen was already heading back to the dining area.

_ Time to enter the arena, _ Obi-Wan thought, taking one last look at the garage as he passed through the doorway. The droids continued to chitter back and forth as he left them.

 

* * *

 

Blowing tentatively on a spoonful of steaming bean paste, Obi-Wan took a small bite. To his surprise, it was rather good. He nodded appreciatively at Beru’s questioning glance. “It’s wonderful, thank you.”

She smiled, then turned to Owen. “I’m going to have to trade with the Darklighters for some more spices next time we get together, I used up most of what we had left tonight.” When this elicited a grunt, she returned her attention to Obi-Wan and said, “So, General, what’s been your most exciting battle recently?”

Chuckling and shaking his head, the general said through a mouthful of beans, “I’m afraid I can’t necessarily talk about all of them. But since, as you pointed out, no one is going to arrest you, I suppose I can tell you that my last mission involved crash landing in my own ship after blowing up a space station. Which itself came after being kidnapped by a bounty hunter.”

This roused Owen, who scoffed. “Never a dull moment fighting for peace and justice, eh? Always busy.” The smirk on his face was a bit of an ugly one, and Obi-Wan saw Beru shoot him a warning look. “I’m amazed you had time for us little people, all you get up to.”

His face flushing, Obi-Wan took another bite of food. “Well, this is the first leave I’ve had in a couple of years. I’m glad I was able to make it out here.”

“We all are,” Beru quickly added, again giving Owen a look that reminded Obi-Wan of Padmé’s default expression. After a few bites of food were taken in silence, she said, “I’m hoping you weren’t alone again this time. Owen and I couldn’t believe it when the news about you getting trapped on Had Abbadon broke.”

“ _ She _ couldn’t,” Owen added. “It was just a matter of time, that Organa screwing up so badly, you ask me.”

“Oh, not to worry,” said Obi-Wan, choosing to ignore the previous comment, “this time I had help. Things went off without a hitch.” He frowned and added, “Well, except for the fact that an enemy shuttle is still embedded in my hangar deck. Apparently Typhoon Division’s allotted funding ‘does not allow for auxiliary repairs at this time.’”

“Isn’t Alderaan a weapons manufacturer? You would think they’d be able to repair one of their own ships.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan replied, spooning some more bean paste onto his plate, “we’re under a crunch right now. Ships everywhere need repairs, and Alderaan is  _ also _ one of the chief suppliers for the rest of the Defense Force right now. Factories have already been experiencing overloads due to the ramped-up output.”

“The bastards switched to full droid labor yet?” Owen asked, looking very carefully down at the table. “Or are there still people working in those factories?”

_ And here we go.  _ “Bail and Breha have been trying to get better regulations in place for years, but unfortunately it’s still a mix of both for now. Though if there have been any major incidents involving safety I haven’t heard of them.”

“You and I both know that’s not how it works,” the moisture farmer said, looking up and fixing Obi-Wan’s eyes with his own. “It’s not major reactor meltdowns, it’s just exposure built up over time until people are dying from cancer they didn’t know they had.”

A chain of images flashed through the Jedi’s mind at this: Alma breaking off a holographic conversation with him, coughing into a tissue, only to freeze when she saw dark stains spattered onto the paper. The veins in her hands growing more prominent from month to month as her skin became more and more sallow. Her smile becoming more and more labored.

“Believe me, Owen,” he said, shaking his head, “if I were able to do something about it, I would. But even if I were a politician, no one advocating for greater caution in manufacturing weaponry is getting anywhere in the Senate right now. People want the clones defeated, and that means throwing more resources at the problem in the current regime’s minds.”

“Clearly you do too, though,” the moisture farmer said, keeping his gaze locked on his former brother-in-law. “Or you wouldn’t still be a general.”

“If you’re asking whether I think the Confederacy needs to be wiped out, I do,” Obi-Wan said before Beru could intervene. “They’re blowing up entire cities, Owen. Surely you’ve seen.”

Acknowledging this with a curt nod, Owen shot back, “Did you ever consider that maybe it’s possible to be against both the clones  _ and _ your wonderful Republic? One blows up cities, the other kills people more slowly, and I’m supposed to pick?”

Obi-Wan was about to give a rebuttal, to drag the conversation to a place it wouldn’t be able to recover from, but even as he opened his mouth he felt alarm pouring off Beru. Forcing himself to inhale and relax, he let the Force briefly flow through him, steadying his agitation. Exhaling and looking into Owen’s eyes, he said, “I don’t have all the answers, Owen. And I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

He could feel the disappointment coming from the moisture farmer—Owen had wanted to keep fighting, had wanted Obi-Wan to take the moral high ground and debate. Before the other man could retreat back to sullen silence, Obi-Wan turned to Beru and said, “It’s a pity Anakin isn’t here. I have a feeling he’d be pestering you both with questions about how things run around the farm.”

Not quite able to hide the relief washing over her, Beru cocked her head and asked, “Anakin?”

“Anakin Skywalker. We met on Had Abbadon, and he’s been . . .” Cocking his own head, Obi-Wan surprised himself by chuckling. “Well, I suppose you could say he’s my best friend, though I think the better term is ‘nuisance.’ Very good with machines, though.”

Owen snorted. “You as a teacher. God help us all.”

Brightening, Beru said, “Oh, congratulations! I suppose if they gave you a new Jedi to train they must have a lot of confidence in you.”

This last sentence caused Obi-Wan, who’d been taking a sip of the blue milk in his glass, to start choking.

As he recovered, Owen started a kind of scoff-laugh. “What, you thought I never told her?”

Beru looked tempted to laugh herself, but instead apologized profusely. “Well,  _ apparently  _ he never thought to tell me you didn’t know I knew,” she said, glaring at her husband. “He made some offhand remark after we’d first gotten married and I made him explain himself. Don’t worry, even if I were to tell anyone they wouldn’t believe me.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, still coughing, “in that case, yes, I’ve been teaching him. It’s been . . . an experience.”

“Met him on Had Abbadon, you said?” Owen asked, raising an eyebrow. “And he decided to come back to the Core with you?”

Maybe it was a trap, but Owen taking interest in Jedi affairs wasn’t an opportunity Obi-Wan was about to pass up. “Him and his wife, Padmé, yes. They weren’t from Had Abbadon initially—she’s from Oseon, he’s from someplace called Junkfort Station.”

“Wife? Don’t tell me she’s a Jedi too.”

“No, she’s serving as Senator Organa’s head of security.”

The moisture farmer shook his head. “Nice, quiet professions. Damn fools should have stayed out here in the Rim. Well, if they want to throw their lives over to the Republic, more power to them. Just as long as they don’t try to get the rest of us involved in the damn wars.”

Beru laid her hand on top of her husband’s. “It’s not exactly paradise out here, Owen. I’m sure I’d rather work for a senator than live on a space station.”

Owen conceded this with a grunt.

“I have to ask,” Beru said to Obi-Wan, “how did they . . .  _ pick _ you? The same way you found Anakin?”

“Oh, I was too young to be discovered in an active war zone,” he replied, speaking slowly to give himself enough time to choose what to say. “They found me, told me things about the Force that I’d already known, somehow, deep down inside. Told my parents enough about the ‘educational opportunity’ I was being offered without exactly saying the truth that they were convinced. I started off on Coruscant for a few years, and then they sent me to study with my master.” Throwing a cautious glance at Owen, he continued: “I told Alma, after our parents died. She was a little alarmed at first, but she took it in stride.” A smile rose to his lips. “Now  _ she _ was bad at keeping secrets. I think she told Owen after they’d been together less than a year.”

“I didn’t believe her,” Owen said softly, staring into space. “Hell, he was barely around as it was, for all I knew he could have been a figment of her imagination.”

Maybe Beru was too caught up in her curiosity to notice this warning sign; instead of shooting yet another cautionary look at her husband, she said to Obi-Wan, “I suppose there’s not exactly a lot of free time in serving the Jedi and rising through the military.”

Shaking his head and doing his best not to look at Owen, he said, “We still talked, just mostly over hologram. I  _ did _ meet Owen, eventually. Didn’t corroborate Alma’s gossip to him, though, not until they were married.”

They were all silent, after that, until Beru said, “Well, I’m certainly glad she told him, so he could tell  _ me _ . It’s fun to have a secret.” Rising to her feet, she planted a kiss on top of her husband’s head and asked, “Help me with the dishes, dear?”

“You’re sure I can’t—” Obi-Wan began, standing himself.

“We’ve got it,” Owen said curtly, grabbing the Jedi’s dishes. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

As husband and wife left for the kitchen, Obi-Wan fought the compulsion to actively extend his perceptions to Owen’s head. He doubted doing so would reveal anything new, anyway.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Owen headed to the garage with talk about making sure the treads on the droids hadn’t gotten anything wedged in them. Beru turned to Obi-Wan and asked, “Have you ever seen a binary sunset?”

The sky bled orange and purple, the vibrancy of the hues a contrast to the relative chill of the air—Obi-Wan wrapped his robe a little tighter around himself to prevent shivering. Hanging just above the horizon were a pair of orbs, one a blinding white eye, the other a deeper red. The Jedi had to squint at first, but after a cloud passed in front of the white sun, he was able to relax his eyes and simply gaze at the retreating light.

For the first time, he was seeing something on Tatooine that was unquestionably beautiful.

As he took in the sight, he mulled over the previous few hours. If nothing else, he at least wasn’t the same man who’d tried to explain the Jedi concept of death to Owen at a funeral— _ that _ person would have argued passionately in defense of the Republic, alienating the moisture farmer even further. But just because he hadn’t pushed Owen any further away didn’t necessarily mean he’d healed anything.

What, exactly, was he meant to say?  _ Yes, I abandoned Alma when she was sick, I let the Jedi Order consume me to the point that I neglected my family.  _ But that wasn’t true. He and Qui-Gon had been  _ saving _ families working together—helping those in need, righting wrongs, bringing justice. Perfect paragons of justice? No. But would Alma have  _ wanted _ him to leave that behind simply to sit with her as she died?

But at the same time, if he couldn’t tell Owen that, couldn’t say the thing Owen clearly believed . . . what was he doing here?

_ You must have brought us together for a reason,  _ he said to the Force.  _ Care to tell me what that is? _

The Force, as it was wont to do when Obi-Wan asked it direct questions, kept its secrets.

Sighing, he turned away from the sunset to look at Beru. “Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.”

“You had him talking about her, that’s something.” Shrugging, she said, “He does hate the Republic. I don’t see that changing. But I’d really like it if he was able not to hate you one day. Small steps are better than none at all.”

The Jedi nodded. “I just wish he’d decided to take you to Alderaan once you were married, instead of staying here. Hatred or not, I think we definitely have you beaten as far as climate is concerned.”

“Well, it’s our home. Just because he went tourist and lived in the Core for a while doesn’t change that.” Smiling gently, she threw out an arm to encompass the sky before them. “Besides, you can’t deny the view.”

There was that, Obi-Wan admitted to himself.

“Not that I’m not glad he was on Alderaan for a while,” Beru added. “Having a Jedi in the family—kind of—makes for a fun addition to my life.” Putting a hand on his shoulder, she said, “Your sister really does sound lovely. I wish I could have known her.”

Obi-Wan turned from the sunset to smile in gratitude. “I’m sure she would have liked you.” He meant it

They simply stood and watched, after that, until the last embers of day had given way to nightfall. Then, as the artificial lights of the homestead began winking out one by one, they turned to head inside.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: TATOOINE** _

Located deep in the Outer Rim, Tatooine is a scorching desert world kept in a constant arid state due to its binary suns. Its two native species, the Tuskens and the Jawas, maintained nomadic cultures for millions of years until interplanetary colonizers arrived, hoping to unearth riches beneath the sands.

No such riches existed, as the Jawas and Tuskens could have told the settlers. Instead of precious metals or oil, Tatooine’s outer settlers now hunt for moisture, living in uneasy coexistence with the species they’ve partially displaced. More lucrative but far more dangerous are the cities, which are overseen by Jabba the Hutt, a criminal kingpin who left his own sector of space for easier pickings.

Heat is not the only danger on Tatooine. Legendary krayt dragons roam the desert sands looking for prey, and rumors persist of a creature known only as the almighty Sarlacc lying in wait within the center of the Dune Sea.


	9. Flamewind Nights

Harsh winds swirled around Anakin Skywalker, causing the fabric of his dark brown robe to flutter noisily behind him. He stared down the dust-coated central avenue of the small Oseon windfarming community. The street was lined with synthetic prefabricated buildings, all built from the same materials and differing only in shape and size. Anakin knew the structures were intended to be constructed quickly whenever a species colonized a new planet; judging by the weathering on the side of most of the buildings, these had been here for quite some time.

Oseon’s lone moon hung high in the afternoon sky, a faint white circle looming large above the town. A jagged crack ran vertically through the center of the moon’s surface—Anakin had to admit the view above was impressive, if a bit unsettling. It gave the impression that the natural satellite might split in half at any minute and fall to the world below.

Returning his gaze groundside and glancing to his right, Anakin eyed Padmé up and down. She had donned a white robe on top of her usual all-white outfit, and covered her face with a light gray scarf. The Jedi was grateful for his own face covering. The wind of Oseon had become rather dusty when they’d left the capital city, to the point where one could feel the breeze pelting against their skin. When Anakin had complained, Padmé had offered him a plain black scarf to cover his mouth and nose. “ _ Keeps the particles out,”  _ she’d told him. “ _ In the windfarming towns, everyone wears one.” _

She’d been right about that. Every pedestrian Anakin and Padmé passed as they strolled down the town’s central avenue had their face covered with a scarf and their head obscured with a hood. As another large gust of wind swept through the street, everyone seemed to freeze in place and lift their arms to further protect their faces. Once the gust of wind had died down, Anakin felt a tug on his arm. It was Padmé, pulling him into a small alley between two prefabricated buildings. 

“We should get indoors,” she said, her voice slightly muffled by the scarf covering her mouth. “The winds are worst in the afternoon. We might literally blow away if we stay out here much longer.” 

“Where are we gonna go?” Anakin asked. “The cops could be hiding in any one of these buildings. Once they figured out what direction we were headed, they could have easily beaten us to town.” 

“I don’t think Centrality Patrol comes around here much, but you’ve got a point.” She paused, ducking her head out of the alleyway between gusts of wind. “There’s a bar down the road, should be a good place to lay low for a few hours.”

Nodding, Anakin popped out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, Padmé following close behind. As they strolled along the pathway, Anakin noticed a pair of pedestrians coming in their direction suddenly hop off the sidewalk and cross the street. Puzzled, he leaned in to whisper to Padmé. “What was that about?”

“It’s our scarves,” she replied. “People out here wear their face scarves all the time, so everyone prints a custom pattern on theirs. That way you can tell people apart.” She gestured to indicate her own face covering. “Our scarves are blank. Dead giveaway that we’re either offworlders or people with something to hide.”

“I see,” Anakin said with a frown. ‘Which is worse?”

Seemingly ignoring his question, Padmé raised a cloth-shrouded arm to indicate one of the avenue’s prefabricated structures. “There’s the bar.”

“I have no idea how you can see that. All these prefab buildings look the same to me,” Anakin grumbled. “Lead the way.” 

Ducking his head lower as a heavy gust swept through the town, Anakin scurried across the street directly behind Padmé. As she reached the door of the prefabricated building—which Anakin could now see was adorned with weathered stencil letters indicating it was a bar—Padmé punched a button beside the entry. The door automatically  _ whooshed  _ aside, and she ducked into the opening, motioning for Anakin to follow her.

They were not inside a bar, but rather a cramped cube-shaped room with plain metal walls. “An airlock?” he asked as the door slid shut behind them. 

“Out here, most places have one,” Padmé said with a nod. “Keeps the dust out.” Reaching her hands up, she pulled back her hood and yanked the scarf away from her face. “Take your stuff off,” she instructed, motioning towards the cloth obscuring Anakin’s face. “You wear that in a bar, everyone will assume you’re up to no good.” 

“What  _ are  _ we up to, exactly?” Anakin asked as he pulled the scarf away from his mouth. 

“I’ll head over to the bartender, see if I can’t get a read on the police situation in town. You . . .” she hesitated for a moment before continuing, “you find a dark corner and stay out of trouble.”

Before Anakin had a chance to complain, the inner door of the airlock slid aside—the box-shaped metal compartment was instantly flooded with the din of conversations shouted over music, the scents of spilled drinks and fried foods.

As she stepped through the airlock, Padmé turned back to glance at Anakin; a stern expression crossed her face. “No schemes,” she said. “That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.” 

“No schemes,” Anakin agreed with a nod, ducking through the airlock and into the warmth of the bar.

 

* * *

 

The interior space of the bar looked nothing like the plain, prefabricated exterior housing it. Faux-wooden flooring stretched from wall to wall, warm lantern lighting hung on strings suspended from the ceiling. Circular synthwood tables dotted the entire space, save for a corner where an elevated stage housed a lone musician plucking at a stringed instrument. 

Padmé inhaled deeply, a satisfied smile forming on her lips. Being in here felt  _ right,  _ in a way that visiting her parents in the capital city never had. She strolled confidently over to the bar set along one of the rectangular room’s long walls, ignoring the stares of the bar patrons checking out the newcomer. 

“Welcome to Crosswind,” a weary-looking bartender muttered as Padmé leaned onto the bar. He was younger than she was, as far as she could tell, but his skin and hair seemed weathered and roughened by the winds of Oseon. He tossed a bar napkin in front of Padmé, then turned around to face the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar. “What can I get you, offworlder?”  
Padmé frowned, tugging at the patternless scarf around her neck. “Is Marco in today?” she asked, keeping her voice below the conversation level of the bar. 

The bartender nodded lazily. “Yeah, want me to get him for you?” 

“That’s alright,” she said hastily. “I’m sure you can help me. He still making that awful basement booze? I’ll have a glass of that.” She tossed a handful of coins onto the bar. 

At this, the bartender perked up a bit, life returning to his eyes. “He is,” the young man said with a chuckle. He turned to face Padmé once again, then ducked down below the bar. When he resurfaced, he was holding a glass and a bottle with no label. “Surprised you knew about this stuff,” he said, gesturing with the bottle—the clear liquid inside splashed against the bottle’s walls as it moved. “It’s not on the menu anymore.”

“Did he have to stop serving it because it made a customer disintegrate?” 

“You’re trashing this stuff a lot, considering you just ordered it,” the bartender said, tilting the unlabeled bottle into Padmé’s glass. 

“Call it self-loathing,” Padmé said with a grin, raising the glass slightly before taking a sip. “Tell me . . .” she trailed off, gesturing to the bartender.

“Zarek,” the young man said.

“Tell me, Zarek. The Sentinel still make his appearances around town?” 

Zarek leaned forward into the bar to meet Padmé’s eyeline. “From time to time.”

“How do the cops feel about that?”

“Centrality Sector Patrol stays out of his way.” Zarek glanced to his left, then his right, before locking eyes with Padmé once again. “But I think you already knew that. You sure seem to have a grasp of how things work around here. You’re no offworlder.”

“Never said I was.” She grinned again before taking another sip of the homebrewed liquor. “I grew up here. I’m back in town to see the Flamewind.” 

“Well, the drink’s on the house, then,” Zarek said, pushing the cluster of credit coins back in Padmé’s direction. “Welcome home. Can I get anything for your friend?” 

Padmé raised an eyebrow. “What friend?” 

“The guy you came in with.” Padmé opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when Zarek raised a hand. “I saw you talk to him when you stepped out of the airlock. Don’t try to say you don’t know him.”

Padmé exhaled slowly through her nose. “I gotta say, Zarek, you’ve got me figured out.” With a smile, she shoved her money back at the bartender. “You know the Hapes Cluster?”

“I’d have to use local fruit,” Zarek began, “and we don’t have the glass that makes the berries keep spinning.” 

_ So  _ that’s  _ how they do it,  _ Padmé thought. 

“So it’ll taste a little different, but I can get pretty close. Want me to deliver it to the table?” 

“What table?” 

“The card table in the back,” Zarek said, gesturing to the opposite wall of the bar. “Looks like your friend has gone and joined Marco’s poker game.”

Padmé whirled around to look in the direction Zarek was pointing. Sure enough, there was Anakin. Her husband was seated at a table with four other people, including one Padmé recognized—the owner of the bar. She watched in horror as her husband gave a gleeful  _ whoop _ and reached his mechanical hand forward to drag a pile of poker chips toward him. 

_ Oh, gods-dammit. _

 

* * *

  
  


Anakin ducked through the second of two airlock doors, stepping fully into the interior of the tavern. As Padmé moved left toward the lengthy bar along one wall, the Jedi split and turned right. Tucked into one corner of the room was a circular table unlike the rest in the room—it was larger, and its surface was a black cloth instead of the synthwood found throughout the rest of the bar. 

Seated around the table were four people, each with a small pile of colorful discs in front of them and a pair of cards in hand. Anakin approached the table just in time to hear one—a human man—curse under his breath and throw his cards on the table. Another of the table’s occupants, a Twi’lek, flashed a grin of sharpened teeth as he scooped up the chips in the center of the table. 

“Afternoon, folks,” Anakin said as he approached one of the table’s empty chairs. “Deal me in?” 

A Rodian sporting a well-tailored suit stared up at Anakin. “The buy-in’s twenty. You good for it?” 

With a nod, Anakin reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a coin, tossing it on the table as he sat down. 

“Republic credits?” the Rodian asked, his antennae twitching. Turning to address the rest of the table, he continued: “We got an offworlder, everyone.” 

“Are the credits a problem?” 

“Not at all.” The Rodian’s snout curled into an approximation of a sly smile. “I’m happy to take your money, so long as you don’t try to lecture me on the benefits of joining the Republic, Mister . . .”

“Skywalker,” Anakin finished for him. “You won’t get a lecture from me”—he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender—“I’m just here to play cards.”

“Alright, Skywalker. You know the game? I don’t think they teach it in the Core.”

“I’m not from the Core,” Anakin replied. “I’d recognize this game anywhere. Classic Junkfort Hold’em. Incomplete sabacc deck, whole table’s an interference field so the cards never change. I won my way off Junkfort Station playing this.” He hadn’t, of course, but he figured it never hurt to scare his poker opponents a little. 

“A Junkforter, eh?” the toothy Twi’lek sneered. “This should be easy.” 

Moments later, after the cards had been dealt, the Twi’lek was the first to fold. 

“Easy, huh?” Anakin teased. He turned back towards Marco, who was acting as dealer. “I’ll check.” After another pass around the table, the hand was down to three players—Marco, Anakin, and an Aqualish woman. The Aqualish tossed a pair of poker chips into the center of the table. 

“Call,” Marco muttered, throwing his own chips into the center. 

Anakin took another peek at his cards, pausing to give the impression that he was unsure of what to do. “Screw it,” he muttered under his breath—secretly hoping his opponents would hear. “I’ll raise. Ten.”

The Aqualish wordlessly matched Anakin’s raise, then turned to glare at Marco. The bar owner rolled his eyes and tossed his cards into the center. “I’m out. All right, you two, show ‘em.” Anakin flipped his two cards over and flashed the Aqualish a grin. “Full house,” Marco said. “Commanders full of sixes.” He gestured to the Aqualish, whose motion to reveal her cards was accompanied by a low grumble. “Three of a kind,” Marco announced. “Skywalker wins.” 

With a victorious  _ whoop,  _ Anakin reached his mechanical hand forward to scoop the center pile of chips towards him. “Sorry you didn’t get to take my money, Marco. Man, wait until Padmé hears about this”

“What did you say?” The suited Rodian’s large eyes narrowed as his eyelids closed; he rose from his chair and placed both hands squarely on the table. Tilting his head back slightly, he shouted loudly enough to address the entire room. “Amidala! What the HELL are you doing in my bar?”

 

* * *

 

Padmé found herself wishing she could melt into the barstool beneath her. The shouts of the owner had cut through the din of conversation, bringing every patron to silence. She stared across the room at the Rodian—who in turn stared back at her—and weighed her options. 

Bolting for the door wasn’t one of them. The afternoon winds hadn’t passed yet, and still wouldn’t for several more minutes. But she’d been found out. It was bound to happen, considering Anakin had wound up playing gods-damned cards with Marco. She couldn’t just  _ stay  _ here. 

_ Or could I? _

“Answer me, Amidala! I thought I told you never to come back here.”

“It’s been nine years, Marco. I reckon I’ve done my time.”  _ You “reckon”?  _ she thought to herself.  _ Pull it together, Amidala.  _

“Get out,” the Rodian shouted back, “or I’ll throw you out myself.” Then, before she had a chance to respond, Marco was scrambling over the top of the poker table and running straight toward her, fists bared. 

The sound of a firing cycler pistol shattered the air within the bar—the charging Rodian froze, and Padmé whipped her head around looking for the source of the noise. When she finally located it, her jaw dropped. “Oh my gods,” she whispered under her breath. “Miss Ross?” 

An ashen-haired woman wrapped in a brown duster coat stood in the center of the bar, her scuffed and weathered cycler pistol pointed straight into the air. The woman’s eyes carried a lively fire to them, though her face seemed worn and weary. She turned to look at Padmé; as their gazes met, a loving smile crossed the woman’s face. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, kiddo,” she said. “‘Malister’ will do.” 

Malister Ross lowered her gun, leveling it at the Rodian bar owner. “Listen here, Marco. As far as you’re concerned, Padmé’s under my protection. Same goes for the guy she came in with.” 

“Skywalker,” Anakin sheepishly interjected from the corner. 

“Skywalker and Amidala are leaving with me. You have any problems with that, you can take it up with the marshal.” Ross turned back to Padmé. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Anakin Skywalker leaned back in the synthwood rocking chair and took a deep breath, appreciating the early evening air of Oseon’s open wind plains. He and Padmé had joined Malister Ross at her farmhouse, and they were all enjoying drinks on the porch, watching the sunset in anticipation of the night’s Flamewind event. The system’s star glowed a brilliant mix of orange and purple as it sank over the horizon; gentle evening winds seemed to caress the grasses in the field, moving them in subtle waves. 

The breeze tickled at Anakin’s face as he raised his whiskey glass to his lips once again—as the amber liquid rolled into his mouth, he turned his gaze upward towards one of the towering windmills out in front of the house. “So, Miss Ross,” he said.

“Malister,” she interrupted, tilting her head to one side and shooting Anakin a scolding look. 

“Right, sorry. Malister, tell me more about this whole wind farming thing. Do you mostly supply power to the city, or are your customers more offworld?”

“It’s a mix of both,” Malister replied, sipping her drink as she paused. “The shipments we do make offworld don’t go far. Most stay in the Centrality sector. I make a couple runs to Junkfort Station, actually. I believe it might be my fault that you ever met Padmé.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I hired her to run a power cell shipment out there. I usually sell to the big energy companies in the capital. It’s easier to just offload the power cells to them, but I get a bigger cut if I sell the harvest myself. That trip to Junkfort just might have been the one where she met you.”

Anakin glanced past Malister to his wife, who shook her head ever so slightly. He smiled, then looked back at the woman seated between them. “Well, I guess I owe you a thanks, then.”

“Energy cells are a valuable commodity,” Padmé piped up, seemingly intent on changing the subject. “I hope you’ve managed to avoid the war.”

“The Republic hasn’t shown any interest in Oseon in years. And the Confederacy hasn’t been here either, at least not directly.”

Anakin felt a spike of panic across the porch as his wife shot up in her chair. “What do you mean?” she asked, worry clearly present in her voice.

“Last week I bought a new prefab storage shed,” Malister replied, leaning forward in her rocking chair. “I got to talking to the crew that helped set it up. One of them warned me that the CIS had inquired about buying the prefabricated structure company.”

This piqued Anakin’s interest. He lowered his glass to the armrest of the rocking chair and sat up. “What does the Confederacy need with prefab buildings?” 

“Hell if I know,” Malister said with a shrug. “But if they buy that company, it could be their in here on Oseon. We use an awful lot of them outside the city.” She gestured all around her, indicating the farm, and Anakin’s gaze followed the motions of her hands. She was right. Nearly every building on the property, save for the house itself, was a prefabricated unit.

“Well, you’ve got friends in the Republic now,” Anakin replied. “If they come knocking, give us a call.”

“I’ll do that,” Malister said, a warm smile crossing her face. She turned to stare back out at the horizon; Anakin did likewise, watching as the last sliver of sunlight dipped out of sight. “I imagine you two don’t get much alone time,” Malister continued. “If you want to watch the Flamewind by yourselves, there’s a nice spot out in the field. Padmé knows the place.” 

“Let’s head there now,” Padmé said—she rose slowly from her rocking chair, taking a step towards the edge of the porch and extending a hand towards Anakin. He stood and took her hand, and they walked out towards the vanishing sun together.

 

* * *

 

Night had fallen over the wind plains of Oseon; the sky seemed an infinite black, with no moon in sight and only the faintest of stars glimmering across the inky canvas. Padmé Amidala leaned forward against the fence at the edge of Malister’s property, gazing at the sky in anticipation of the impending celestial event. 

Glancing momentarily to her right, she was disappointed to discover her husband was not also staring skyward, but rather down at a commlink cradled in his mechanical hand. 

“Hey,” she scolded. “You’re gonna miss it if you don’t look up.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Message from Obi-Wan.”

“I thought we agreed on no work talk, Anakin.”

He nodded. “You’re right. It’s not urgent, at least. Just a message to meet him in the Temple as soon as I get back to Coruscant.” 

“Cool. Now put it away,” said, poking Anakin in the ribs; with a benevolent eyeroll, he pocketed the commlink. 

Padmé’s gaze returned upward, but she was once again distracted, this time by a cool sensation around her neck. She shifted her head downward to see a small necklace dangling from a string; looking behind her, she realized Anakin was tying the necklace around her neck.

“Gods, can’t you sit  _ still _ ?”

“Hey, hey, I’m just trying to take advantage of the moment,” he replied. “If I could just—get these fingers—to work—” His face screwed up with the effort of manipulating the mechanical fingers, he struggled for a few seconds before the knot held. “There.”

“What is this?” she asked, indicating the square-shaped medallion. She ran her fingers across its intricate carvings—it was smooth, but not in the sterile way that something made of metal or plastic would be. There were tiny imperfections, little bumps and furrows—signs of life. “Gods, Anakin, is this real wood? Where the hell did you get this?”

“I made it,” he said, his voice low. “Carved it last time I was at the Jedi Temple. I know it’s not much, but this Flamewind thing seemed like a decent occasion to surprise you. I just wanted you to have something you could take with you when we’re apart. Something to remember me by.”

“I don’t forget you, Anakin,” she teased, continuing to rub her fingers along the snippet of organic material. 

“You know what I mean.” He moved around to her side, wrapping an arm around her.

She clutched the necklace in one hand. “Thanks. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

In that instant, the sky exploded into a brilliant display of color. Threads of orange and red danced in the air, and the backdrop of space seemed to turn a gentle purple. Padmé heard Anakin gasp in awe; she merely smiled, her heart warmed by the familiarity of the Flamewind.

“There she is,” she whispered.

“She?”

_ Damn.  _ “It. I mean there it is.”

Anakin pulled away from Padmé, turning to face her instead of the celestial light show. “You said ‘she.’ This is one of the gods, isn’t it?” He gestured upward to indicate the aurora. Padmé nodded, but did not turn to look at her husband. “Come on,” he continued. “Tell me.”

Heaving a theatrical sigh, she said in a breathy whisper, “The Flamewind of Oseon. She descends from the heavens once a year to grace the night sky. When I was a kid, I thought it was because she was watching over us, reminding us that she was our protector.” As she continued, her voice took on a bitter note. “Then I grew up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I traveled to space. There’s no heaven up there. And this”—she pointed towards the Flamewind as it continued to weave throughout the air—“is just an aurora. Lots of planets have them. I’ve seen Alderaan’s, and I think it might be prettier. That crack in the moon? They tell everyone a god did that. But it’s not true, it was just a meteor impact that happened way before we knew what meteors were. So the same fake story gets passed down from generation to generation, and kids end up believing in it. Until they don’t anymore.”

Anakin was silent for a minute. When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it’s just  . . .” she trailed off. “Sometimes it’s hard finding out what’s real and what’s not. I thought the Force was a myth, and look how that turned out. I thought the gods were real, and . . .”

“Maybe they still are.”

She leaned away from Anakin slightly, shooting him an incredulous stare. “What?”

“Okay, so the moon cracked because a meteor hit it. But maybe the meteor was going to hit Oseon, and a god guided it to the moon instead. Saved everyone on the planet.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Anakin smiled, and a short breath escaped his nose. “Yeah, maybe. I’m just saying. It’s not so bad to let yourself think that someone up there is watching over you. Like her.” He pointed at the Flamewind. 

“Leia.” 

“Huh?” 

Padmé turned her gaze skyward once again. “Her name is Leia. The Flamewind of Oseon.” 

Anakin leaned in towards Padmé, wrapping his arm around her. The pair stared upward in silence, watching as the Flamewind weaved in and out among the stars. When the ribbons of orange had finally disappeared and the sky had gone from a royal purple back to the infinite black of night, they wordlessly turned and walked away hand in hand.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CENTRALITY SECTOR PATROL** _

The Outer Rim sector of space known as Centrality employs a cooperative model for peacekeeping, law enforcement, and planetary defense. Though each settled world within Centrality is independently governed, all planets in the sector are defended by a group known as Centrality Sector Patrol. In contrast with the Republic, planets in the Centrality region provide none of their own defenses.

This combination law enforcement/private military force has several divisions, with duties ranging from fending off space pirate attacks to on-the-ground police work. Centrality Sector Patrol holds full authority to arrest anyone within the sector, and patrol officers must familiarize themselves with each world’s local laws. The organization’s jurisdiction ends at the border of the Centrality Sector, a fact often exploited by gun runners and other smuggling groups. It is not uncommon for ships carrying contraband to brazenly fly in plain view of Centrality Sector Patrol, their pilots simply hoping they can reach the border before pursuing law enforcement ships catch up to them. Colloquially, this is known as the “CSP Sprint.” 

On the world of Oseon, Centrality Sector Patrol enjoys full authority only in the major cities. Several key outlying windfarming villages have been all but abandoned by the organization due to repeat encounters with a masked vigilante known as The Faceless Sentinel. This gunslinging vigilante, regarded as a local legend and hero by the windfarmers, appears to act in protest of Centrality Sector Patrol’s often aggressive policing tactics. 


	10. Hands Off

As the  _ Charybdis _ sailed through hyperspace, there was none of the usual noise associated with ship operation. The bridge crew moved quietly, punching buttons in near silence. To some, it might have been unnerving. Valis preferred the quiet—it signified that her bridge personnel kept non-clone officers to an absolute minimum. The only exception was her XO—Haliath Rama, a Pau’an Valis had selected shortly after her previous XO had met a premature end at Maul’s hands. After Melko, she’d decided that she’d be selecting her own bridge crew, Maul’s master be damned.

_ Whoever he is. _

Two years had passed since Had Abbadon, and in that time she’d gotten no closer to learning anything about the man behind the curtain. Her man on Naboo had vanished. No further trawling of the ship’s archives had brought up anything. And Maul was no more forthcoming than before.

That was what all of this was supposed to be for. The lightsaber she kept concealed in her quarters, the late-night Force exercises, the trip to Korriban that her memory had rendered mostly a black void. To gain Maul’s trust, to learn secrets. But it had yielded—what? Almost nothing.

Chained, he thought her.  _ Easy for him to say, _ she thought, clenching her fist in irritation. Sure, whatever epiphany he’d had just before Had Abbadon had lessened some of the raging id, but the Zabrak still viewed the Confederacy as a plaything, a tool to use and be discarded the instant it stopped getting him closer to the Jedi. And Valis . . . Valis had a war to win.

Images of her burned-out home flashed before her eyes. The Jedi were a cancer, the Republic something even fouler. Of course they needed to be wiped out. And she wasn’t about to say no to a lightsaber and the dark side as part of her personal arsenal should she need them. But the idea that the galaxy’s fate would come down to a few individuals waving around laser swords . . . it was a bad joke.

Something in her brain whispered to her of the things she’d seen on Korriban—surely that had to mean something more, had to speak to a power greater than the individuals who wielded it. An unspeakable darkness hovering around the galaxy’s edges, longing to devour its enemies. A brief shiver ran through the admiral at this; for an instant, the bridge was cold as ice.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, however, and she shook her head. The Force was powerful, that was a given. But it wasn’t a god with devices and desires of its own.  _ And look where Mekosk’s oh-so-powerful weapon has gotten us. Reliance on any one tool for victory is myopia. _

_ Besides, even if the Sith are powerful enough to break the galaxy, someone needs to put it back together again.  _ For all her troubles with the Board—for all Mekosk’s love of pulverizing cities—the Confederacy was what would reassemble the pieces.

“Four minutes until dropout, ma’am,” Rama’s voice said, drawing Valis out of her reverie. “Pilots are sitting in their fighters, ready to launch.” A feral smile rose to the Pau’an’s face, deforming the splits in her skin. “Been too long since we killed something. Looking forward to it.”

Internally, the admiral rolled her eyes semi-affectionately. “You and I don’t do any of the killing, Rama. We sit here while it happens.”

“Close as I’m going to get, Admiral. Besides, the fireworks are always prettier when you’re far away enough for the scenic view.”

Childish, but that was what Valis liked about Melko’s replacement. Violent initiative over corporate snobbery any day. Valis felt that violent initiative as a spike of panic emanated from where Rama was standing—the Pau’an’s hand snapped down to her holstered blaster as she gestured behind Valis to the bridge entry. “Unauthorized presence on the bridge, Admiral.” 

Valis whirled around to look, her heart rate descending from its temporary spike as she saw the graceful figure of a Kaminoan enter the bridge. “It’s fine, Rama. She’s good.” Reaching back behind her, Valis motioned for Rama to take her hand off her gun. “Captain Rama, this is—”

“Taun We,” the Kaminoan interrupted, extending a skeletal arm towards the executive officer. “Genetic engineering specialist.”

Valis watched as Rama apprehensively gripped the Kaminoan’s semi-webbed hand and gave it a slight shake. “Taun We has worked in Tipoca City’s primary cloning facility for just shy of thirty years,” the admiral said. “She’ll be assisting us on this mission.” Then, turning to face Taun We, she continued. “You were instructed to remain in your quarters during the journey. Why are you here?”

Wordlessly, the Kaminoan gestured behind her. As if on cue, tiny metallic  _ clinks _ sounded against the floor of the bridge. A spidery-looking droid no more than a foot tall was slowly crawling its way into the command area, and atop the droid hovered a life-size projection of the Kaminoan Prime Minister.

Taun We’s lanky form bowed the instant the image entered the room; Valis did not follow suit. “Prime Minister Yi,” she said through slightly clenched teeth. 

Ruala Yi’s towering image leaned forward toward Valis in a rather alien motion—her body stayed almost entirely still, her slender neck craning down until her head was level with the admiral’s. “You’ve kidnapped one of my best scientists. Explain yourself.”

“‘Kidnapped’ is a harsh word,” Valis said, staring the projection of Ruala Yi directly in the eyes. “Taun We is here because I asked her to be; she’s no prisoner.”

“A Kaminoan geneticist is hardly needed to take out a Jedi outpost, Admiral.”

Valis steadfastly glared into the eyes of Kamino’s Prime Minister and did not say a word.  _ Let her be the one to fill the silence _ . 

“There is no Jedi outpost, is there?” Yi finally asked. “I’ve known Lord Maul longer than almost anyone in this Confederacy. If a Jedi outpost in the Mid Rim were vulnerable to attack, he would have destroyed it long ago.” Her accusation delivered, Yi finally raised her neck back into an upright position.  

“Prime Minister, what are you suggesting?”

“Don’t be coy, Admiral,” the Kaminoan said, her voice cool and level. “We are communicating on a private channel of the Ruling Council of Kamino. Executor Mekosk will never hear these words.  Speak the truth.”

Valis narrowed her eyes. “Very well. There is no Jedi outpost.”

The hologram flickered slightly, the only motion in Yi’s otherwise unsurprised expression. “So where are you taking my scientist?”

A moment of silence hung in the air; Valis took the opportunity to step away from Yi’s image and begin pacing across the bridge’s command walkway. “Prime Minister, we have not always seen eye-to-eye in the board’s squabbles over the future of this war. However, we share a fundamental agreement that Executor Mekosk does not—the belief that clone soldiers are the key to victory, not the shipyards’ latest toy.”

Yi’s glassy black eyes blinked twice in rapid succession. “That is not an answer.”

“It’ll have to do for now. Neither of us wishes to see clone production scaled back. This mission will further our common goals, but if the Executor finds what’s going on out he could easily shut us down. If you don’t know where we are, you can’t tell him. Plausible deniability, Prime Minister. It’s for your own good.”

Ruala Yi steepled her bony fingers, pausing as if to consider the situation. After several seconds, she finally spoke. “Fine. You may keep me in the dark for now, but I expect a full report when you are finished. I wish to hear every detail. Understand?”

At this, Valis gave a long-overdue bow. “Of course, Prime Minister.”

With that, the image of Ruala Yi fizzled out of existence. The admiral spun on a heel to face the bridge viewport, then shot a sideways glance at her Kaminoan passenger. “You were invited on the understanding that this would be kept secret. That device”—she jabbed a thumb back at the walking holoprojector that only moments ago had played host to the projection of Yi—”stays locked in your cabin until we’re done. Understood?” 

Taun We’s neck bobbed in a slight nod—turning gracefully, she moved to exit the bridge, the holoprojector  _ clinking  _ alongside her.

_ Enough distractions.  _ Aloud, she asked, “How long to dropout, Rama?”

“We’re nearly there, ma’am,” the executive officer replied, her sharp teeth baring in an anticipatory grin. “Cutting in the sublight engines . . . now.”

The blue vortex of hyperspace collapsed, revealing an unremarkable void in its place. They were between planetary systems, along a hyperspace route guarded not by Republic or Confederate ships, but by space pirates. Pirates much like the gang Valis had once run with. A sizeable frigate—about the size of the CIS _Dictat_ -class vessels, Valis thought—sat squarely in front of the _Charybdis._ Two dozen fighters buzzed around it like a swarm of gnats, seemingly ignorant of the warship. 

_ They’ll notice us soon enough,  _ Valis thought, casting an angry glare out the bridge viewport. Not averting her gaze from the space outside the window, she spoke aloud into the air: “Open fire.”  

Just then, something prickled at the back of the admiral’s neck. Where before it would have been a bad feeling, she now knew what was signified; she turned from staring into the blackness of space to see Maul approaching. 

“Come with me,” he commanded, his raspy voice carrying across the bridge.

Not wanting to get into a shouting match in front of the executive officer—Valis didn’t give a damn what the wetworks thought—the admiral strode the distance between them until they were close enough to whisper.

“Where?”

“We must join the battle alongside the other starfighters.”

She suppressed a slight laugh. “You want me to get in your ship and  _ dogfight?  _ That’s ridiculous. I have a job to do up here. Besides, I’m a few years out of practice—”

He lowered his voice below hers. “This mission is outside the Board’s jurisdiction. You are here not under their orders but mine. You are a Sith. And the Sith do not issue orders from the comfort of a command bridge. You must get your hands dirty.” 

“We will discuss this later,” she whispered back, matching Maul’s volume level. “The success of this operation is too important for you to muddle it with one of your pointless lessons.”

At that, Maul performed a gesture so uncharacteristic it was almost unsettling—he simply shrugged. The casual dismissal carried with it more contempt than any anger could have. 

“Suit yourself,” Maul said, turning “You will join the battle sooner or later, whether you want to or not.”

With that, he swept his cloak aside and stalked toward the bridge door.

 

* * *

  
  


The energy of the  _ Scimitar  _ resonated beneath Darth Maul as it lifted from the deck of his private hangar and shot from the aft section of the  _ Charybdis _ . Wrenching its controls around and brining the ship to bear towards the space battle, the Sith lord closed his eyes and reached out. 

Flaming strands of energy connected every living thing suspended in the vacuum of space. Maul could see the web of fire spun in front of him as though it were really there. The wetworks in their tri-fighters—a handful of identical minds copied over and over again—and the space pirates in their worn-down hodgepodge of ships. Their minds served as a fascinating distraction; one, Maul was all but certain, was hopped up on some sort of potent stimulant—the pirate’s energy was erratic, pulsing in an uneven arrhythmia. 

Maul drank in the aggression emanating from the distant starfighter pilot, the dark side energy growing stronger as his ship closed the distance. When he could feel that he was in range, the Zabrak opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger set into the back of the  _ Scimitar’s  _ control yoke. 

Red lances shot forward from the cannons mounted into the  _ Scimitar _ , decimating the battered pirate starfighter. As the pilot’s imprint in the Force shattered into nothing, Maul bared his teeth in something like a smile. The wave of death energized him, and he expertly snapped his vessel into a tight roll that narrowly avoided another oncoming fighter. 

He moved as one with the dark side, his left hand instinctively switching the toggle for the ship’s strike foils. Seconds later, a proton torpedo leapt out of the nose of the  _ Scimitar _ , punching clean through one pirate starfighter and shearing the wing off the one immediately behind it. 

“ _ Where the hell are those shots coming from?”  _ came a scream over Maul’s comms—space pirates always seemed to use open comm channels, and Maul much preferred the cries of his enemies to the chatter of the Confederacy’s space forces. 

“ _ I’ve got nothing on sensors,”  _ another pirate shouted. Those were the last words she would ever say—slamming his ship into a tight drifting motion, Maul brought his guns to bear on the pirate fighter and buried a flurry of laser fire in one of the engine nacelles. Each defeated enemy made him feel stronger, each dying breath on the comm sent power coursing through his veins. 

For a few moments he flew with his eyes closed, once again feeling rather than seeing as he steered from target to target, aiming for their auras in the Force. Then his senses drifted back to the  _ Charybdis. _

The warship sat at a safe distance, firing volleys of turbolaser fire at the pirate frigate. He could feel Valis on the bridge, doing what she always did in battle—suppressing anger in the interest of being tactical.

_ It’s the point of no return,  _ he felt the dark side whisper to him.  _ Either she commits here, now, while the eye of the Confederacy is off you, or she doesn’t turn at all. _

The old Maul—mind blurred by its immersion in raw hunger, deranged by the manipulations of the Korriban rock his master had placed within his chamber—would have grown impatient a long time ago. Would have taken this warning as a sign that he needed to cast Valis aside right now and start again, acted on impulse. But the vision he’d received two years ago had changed things. Darth Maul had the ability to plan now. And he didn’t like the idea of his plans being dashed aside.

Nevertheless, the whisper in his head was right, he could feel. Passion was the key to power. Valis had it—her hatred for what the Republic and the Jedi had done to her planet, to her family, was always there, just beneath her skin. But she’d spent decades hedging her bets, never trusting anything fully. The dark side  _ demanded _ commitment.

She needed to see the strength the Force could grant in the heat of battle. She needed to feel it for herself, to realize that the Sith were the future—the Confederacy merely a tool to usher them in.

He would  _ make _ her see if that was what it took, he decided, bringing his vessel around and tracking another target. When they reached their destination, she would face the enemy herself.

Not from the comfort of a warship’s bridge, he resolved as he dusted another pirate, but with a lightsaber in hand.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: HYPERLANE JUNCTIONS** _

__

Hyperspace travel is at its safest when a spacecraft is traveling along mapped and established hyperlanes. These hyperlanes connect most civilized major worlds throughout the galaxy, though many of these connections are not direct. During a journey, a vessel may have to drop out of hyperspace and reorient itself along a new hyperlane before making another jump. The points in space where this is done are known as hyperlane junctions. 

Junctions are all but guaranteed to see heavy space traffic. This makes them a common place to construct refueling stations and space hotels. However, some junctions are deserted, and these same junctions are often incredibly dangerous. 

The Republic cannot reasonably patrol every hyperlane junction. Those that lack a patrol are often frequented by space pirates and outlaw gangs. Some operate impromptu toll stations, demanding credits or supplies in return for safe passage through the junction. Other groups, mostly deep in the Outer Rim, merely fire on sight. When traveling through known hostile intersections, it is advisable to pre-calculate every leg of a hyperspace jump and spend as little time in each junction as possible. 


	11. The Temple

Padmé often joked with Anakin that their housing situation ever since they’d moved to Coruscant was completely unfair. She had one home—the apartment they shared together near the Capitol District. Anakin had  _ three _ —that apartment, his quarters on the  _ Coelacanth _ , and the Jedi Temple. In truth, the latter stung a little—sure, she got it. Secrecy was important. But whenever he and Obi-Wan would head there to spend an evening, it felt like the cool kids had gone to the special clubhouse she wasn’t invited to.

So, when Anakin had casually asked on their way back to Coruscant if she would be interested in stopping by his third home, she’d had to try her best not to act even the littlest bit excited.

The act was substantially easier now that they were actually standing in the thing.

“You live in a  _ museum _ ?” she asked incredulously, turning around as if to spot the real Jedi Temple hiding in a corner of the room. “Gods, are  _ all _ of you as boring as Obi-Wan?”

It was a  _ pretty _ museum, anyway, but the stone building they’d entered was most definitely nothing more than a collection of stuff behind glass. Cool stuff, admittedly—it looked to be a curation of pre-industrial Coruscanti artifacts. Remnants of stone carvings and paintings, clippings of native plant species long since driven to extinction, some animal fossils scattered here and there—every single one of them a reason to be glad the Core Worlds had never gotten to Oseon. Still, though—a  _ museum _ ?

“Shh,” her husband said, raising a metal finger to his lips and smirking. “Just follow me.”

They ambled through halls full of additional specimens, a few patrons scattered within each. A Twi’lek employee lectured on the origins of a particular bear pelt to a group of four visitors or so; it might have been Padmé’s imagination, but she was sure she saw the man wink at Anakin as they passed.

“This isn’t a prank, right?” she hissed at him as they turned a corner. “Like, Liz walks out and gives me the finger and you both laugh?”

“Patience, apprentice.” This was followed by a whisper-shouted “ _ Ow! _ ” as she caught his ribs with an elbow.

“Okay,” Anakin said, rubbing at his ribs. “Here.”

Nothing much seemed to be in this room; a skylight provided plenty of illumination onto empty floors, empty walls. The lone exception was along the rear wall—a bookcase, full not of electronic texts but actual paper tomes. Not, evidently, for personal use; a thin sheet of transparisteel stood in front of the shelves, the skylight’s beam reflecting off it.

“Ooh,” Padmé said. “A library. Thrilling.”

“Come on.” Gripping her by the hand, Anakin pulled her forward. “Let’s check out a book.”

Gingerly, he reached out with his flesh hand and ran his fingers along the outer corner of the display case. “Um,” she asked, “shouldn’t an alarm be going off—”

“Shhhhhh,” he said again, and then, with a  _ click _ , the front sheet of transparisteel separated from the rest.

Anakin gently swung it open. “Hang on, this is the cool part.” Reaching out, he took her right hand in his flesh hand. “Move your hand where I move mine.”

Slowly, together, their hands hovered closer and closer to the shelf. Padmé could smell the moldering paper of the books that lay there, could almost hear their pages crackling if she listened closely enough. Dust danced through the air, making her want to sneeze.

“Right about . . . here . . .”

Together, their fingers brushed against the spine of one of the books.

A sudden grinding noise sounded, soft but still hair-raising in the otherwise silent library. Padmé yanked her hand back, out of her husband’s grasp—and then realized the books were moving back too, the shelf retreating into the wall.

And exposing a single, unlit staircase.

Padmé peered down into the stairwell, but she couldn’t see anything, just a blackness reminiscent of a Had Abbadon lava tube. Looking back up, she squinted at the space where the bookshelf had stood only moments before—there was no sign of it, just a similarly black space. Cautiously, she rubbed her fingers together, as if whatever properties the disappearing books had might be catching.

Reaching down, Anakin took her hand again. When she looked up at him, a half-smile of wonder on her face, he grinned. “After you.”

 

* * *

 

Swearing loudly probably wasn’t the best way to make a first impression on her husband’s fellow Jedi, but Padmé couldn’t help it. As she stepped out of the darkened stairwell and into the room beyond, she felt the breath leave her body.

There were organic places on Coruscant—indoor gardens for people to escape to for a few hours of rest, to see something other than concrete—but even those, in Padmé’s experience, felt sterile, regimented. This was something else entirely. She’d stepped into a massive, vaulted courtyard that was absolutely bursting with green. A thin line of flagstones formed a narrow walkway through thick grass growing free; dotted throughout this living carpet were flowers, little bursts of pink and yellow and blue. The smell of pollen, of wet leaves, of  _ life _ was overwhelming, almost debilitating to someone who’d five minutes ago been in the midst of an absolutely lifeless city.

Sounds streamed into her ears—chirping insects and bubbling water and the fluted whisper of breezes.  _ They have to be piping that in from somewhere,  _ Padmé thought, _ there’s no way it’s actually here.  _ But even as the sentence ran through her mind, she felt the fingers of a gentle wind waft across her face.

At the center of everything stood a tree. Though the thought was nonsensical, Padmé was struck by the distinct, incontrovertible impression that somehow it was this tree that held the Temple upright—that if it were to be cut down, all the buildings above would collapse. It looked older than some of Had Abbadon’s caves, its bark gnarled and rough and dusty with age but still tough. Leaves sprouted from its branches, rustling gently in the somehow-breeze.

_ It’s the first,  _ Padmé thought to herself, the conviction as unprovable and as fixed in her mind as the image of the tree as a central pillar had been.  _ The first tree to grow on Coruscant, and the last. _

As her eyes trailed to its uppermost branches, they brushed against the sky. Not a remote blue seen through a skylight— _ sky _ , somehow taking the place of the ceiling. The sun was beginning to set, purples and oranges forming the backdrop for a few gray wisps of cloud. She felt like gasping, then realized she had in fact done so.

From beside her, Anakin’s voice trickled into her ear. “You should see that at night.”

The sound of his speech broadened her focus somewhat, reminded her that she wasn’t alone in experiencing this. Indeed, she saw, looking back down at the foot of the tree, several other people were scattered throughout the courtyard. A Wookiee and a Barabel walked along the perimeter, engaging in a conversation she couldn’t hear; an Ortolan plucked some flowers from a particularly vibrant growth. A handful of Jedi knelt near the base of the tree, their eyes closed.

“It’s . . . gods,” Padmé managed. Dimly, she felt Anakin’s flesh hand squeeze her own.

“You wanna see the tree?” he asked.

At first she didn’t register the full meaning of the words; then she whipped her head toward her husband’s grinning face. “I—is that allowed?”

The grin widening, he whispered, “I managed to sneak a non-Jedi into the clubhouse, I think we can probably get away with a little more.”

Their footsteps fell softly as they walked through the grass; the Ortolan, finished with her picking, looked up, saw Anakin, and waved. If Padmé’s presence was an issue, the alien gave no indication, simply turned and headed for one of the several doors ringed around the courtyard. Turning slightly, Anakin guided his wife on a bit of a detour around the floor, aimed for a side of the tree that was free of meditating Jedi.

A strange  _ something _ was building as they drew closer to the center of the courtyard, something Padmé couldn’t quantify. A sensation of lightness was rising within her, in an area just under her breastbone. Looking down, she noticed that it seemed to be centered exactly under the place where Anakin’s necklace brushed against her skin; the piece of wood was suddenly almost warm. She opened her mouth, about to comment on the weirdness of the feeling, but then Anakin said softly, “Here we are.”

From where they stood, a foot away from the gnarled trunk, Padmé could see the moss that coated it, dappled greens and yellows forming patches on the wood. Directly in front of her was a large knot free of the growth—almost perfectly sized for a hand to grip. She glanced over at Anakin, who nodded; then, tentatively, she reached out and laid her fingers on the tree.

The lightness in her chest snapped outward all at once, and suddenly  _ everything _ was light, as if she’d been hollowed out and refined. As she inhaled in surprise, the sensation of her fingers against the wood grew incredibly vivid—she could feel every pore in the bark, so secure against her hand that the two were suddenly intertwined. The urge to push deeper rose within her—a very distant part of her mind said  _ Don’t be silly, you’re already touching the tree,  _ but she felt herself do just that.

And then she  _ felt _ all of it, the tree in its entirety. She could touch every particle of it, could travel down each tendril that wove the leaves to the branches and the roots into the earth. The sensation grew by the second, until she wasn’t simply feeling the tree, she  _ was _ the tree, growing into the ground and reaching for the sky. More than that, she was all the spots of brightness that glowed throughout the chamber—the flowers, the insects that buzzed, the Jedi who were extending their own senses to meld with the life around them.

She was Anakin, standing next to her, his hand resting on her shoulder.

Part of her never wanted this unraveling, this  _ becoming _ , to end, but another part was full of unspeakable terror. It wasn’t more powerful than her desire, but it was more immediate, more abrupt. With what felt like a titanic effort, she removed her hand from the tree.

Vertigo surged through her as her perceptions snapped back into her own skull. A tiny portion of what had just happened remained—that lightness under her breastbone, tiny but tangible.

Taking the piece of wood that hung from her neck between her fingers, Padmé rubbed it gently. “Is—was this part of this tree?”

Nodding, Anakin once again took her hand in his. “Wanted you to have a part of this place. So you’re always home with me, y’know?”

As her legs started to verge toward buckling, she decided to sit down on the grass, collapsing downward all at once. “You okay?” her husband asked, alarm entering his voice as he knelt down next to her.

“Yeah,” she managed.  _ More than okay, I think.  _ But at the same time—”I just . . . wow. Is that what it feels like all the time?”

“Not necessarily,” a new voice said. Whipping her head backward and up, Padmé saw a familiar, bearded visage standing above her. “The tree opens a deeper connection to the Force. For people who’ve never consciously felt that before, it can be . . . a lot, I’d imagine.”

Hastily pulling herself to her feet, she gripped the Jedi’s proffered hand. “That’s  _ one _ way to put it, Kenobi. You guys should try and bottle that stuff, you’d be drug kingpins within a week.”

“Don’t think I haven’t put forth the idea,” another familiar face said as it emerged from behind Obi-Wan. The new figure leaned casually against a length of metal cane, digging it into the grass; the look on her face was one of benevolent amusement. “No one ever seemed to think it was very funny.”

“Qui-Gon!” Anakin said, pleasant surprise rising in his voice. “Been a while, how you doing?”

“Oh, not much new,” Qui-Gon Jinn replied, “being a nuisance here whenever I’m not stuck in the Interplanetary Outreach office. Madame Nu told me in not so many words that if I keep abusing the library I’m going to give her a coronary.” Turning to Padmé, she extended a deep-brown hand. “I believe the last time we had the pleasure was shortly before I ate the business end of a lightsaber.”

Gripping the proffered hand, Padmé noticed the slight flicker in Jinn’s easy smirk. “It’ll take more than that to put you down, obviously,” she replied. “I’m impressed—Kenobi here wouldn’t stop whining over a few broken ribs, the lightweight.”

Jinn snorted, the brightness coming back to her expression. “Suppose that’s what comes of being the brains of the operation, eh, Obi-Wan?”

“Precisely,” the general replied, the grumpiness in his tone only mostly affected. The circles under his eyes were less noticeably dark than they’d been prior to his vacation, but there was still some strain present on his face; wherever he’d gone, Padmé had the feeling it hadn’t been a nature preserve. “Speaking of which, as lovely as it is to see you, Padmé, I need to see Anakin privately about something, if you don’t mind waiting here?”

The idea of sitting here alone amongst a bunch of strange Jedi, any one of whom could try striking up a conversation with her, didn’t exactly strike Padmé as a good idea. Before she could express her distaste, however, Jinn spoke up. “Obi-Wan, you oaf, you’re not just going to leave her here for an hour to be gawked at.” As the general flushed, his old partner turned to Padmé and said, “Never fear, Amidala, I’ll show you around while these two talk about their war toys. Assuming you’re game?”

Padmé took a long look around the courtyard, taking it all in again. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could feel the presence of the tree at her back. For a moment, she considered saying she’d stay here after all.

Then she saw the pair of Jedi across the way look over at her curiously, and turned her gaze back to Jinn. “Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

“All this,” Jinn said, throwing out her arms to encompass the sea of knowledge all around them, “and they still can’t help me find the database entries I’m looking for.”

The Archives, as the Jedi had called them before bringing Padmé inside, were a commingling of the old and the new. Stretching all the way to the ceiling were row upon row of paper pages bound in leather—ones that could actually be picked up and read, Padmé assumed, unlike the ones upstairs—but toward the rear of the massive room were also computer databanks that towered equally high, emitting a soft blue glow. Personal terminals were scattered in the open areas bracketed by shelves; as the two women weaved between stacks, Padmé also noticed doors leading to private reading rooms. “The Old Library is in an antechamber at the very back,” Jinn said, her voice dropping to a whisper as a librarian droid whirred by. “The paper texts in the main Archives are all reproductions; the Old Library keeps the original sacred texts. Can’t take you there, I’m afraid.”

“Us mere mortals can’t see the ancient wisdom?”

Shaking her head, Jinn replied, “Oh, I can’t, either. It’s sealed off to anyone but the highest Masters, has been for centuries.”

“Any particular reason?”

Her mouth quirking upward into its usual smirk, Jinn answered, “I can’t just tell you all our spooky stories right away, Amidala. It would ruin the mystique.”

_ Gods save me from Jedi comedians,  _ Padmé thought to herself. The sentiment must have shown on her face, because Jinn’s smirk grew gentler. “Besides,” the other woman added, “why tell you when I can show you?” Gripping Padmé’s hand and hefting her cane, she said, “Quick, before Madame Nu sees us and chases me out.”

After exiting the library, they wandered past what Jinn told Padmé were the dormitories. “They can hold a hundred or so of us at full capacity, but they don’t tend to need to these days,” the Jedi said, her forehead creasing in worry. “The Knights are nearly all caught up in the war, which leaves those of us who aren’t so lucky to hold down the fort.”

“Those of you who aren’t so lucky?” As she asked the question, the two of them started to descend down a stone staircase, one that curved as it descended.

“Oh, takes all kinds,” Jinn replied, raising her voice slightly above the steady  _ clack _ of her cane against the stone steps. “We’ve got Scholars, Healers, Technicians. And of course there are still the combat-inclined who’re tasked with upkeep here—Wardens to keep guard, Battlemasters to train the new recruits not to kill themselves with their lightsabers.”

“Which one are you, exactly?” Padmé asked, part of her regretting the question even as she asked.

“Now that I’m not a Knight, you mean?” Fortunately, if there was any secret bitterness there it wasn’t audible in the other woman’s voice. “Oh, I don’t like labels. Officially, when I’m not undercover in Interplanetary Outreach, I’m mostly reading these days, so I suppose Scholar is the closest.”

Padmé raised an eyebrow. “Officially?”

“Well, between you and me.” Qui-Gon halted and leaned a bit closer. “I do tend to get more vacation days now that I’m an invalid. Let’s just say you and your boys didn’t exactly invent the concept of working when you’re supposed to be on a break.”

Padmé felt a grin tug at the corner of her mouth. “Someone ought to report you.”

“Oh,” Jinn replied, waving her hand, “I can only do so much without my lightsaber. A little visit to the Underworld here, a drug ring busted there, talking teenagers into going home and rethinking their lives rather than joining gangs. Or, you know, fighting said gangs. Minor hobby, really. As I said,  _ officially _ I stay here reading.” She shrugged. “It has its perks. Boring, but I’ll probably live longer. Which,” she added, her voice dropping down to a near-whisper as they neared the end of the staircase’s curve, “is supported by what’s down here.”

The door at the bottom of the stairs was old-style, with a manual knob to one side. As the women approached, Jinn gestured at the apparatus with an open palm. “After you.”

As Padmé gripped the metal and swung the door open, she felt cool air rush to meet her. The room beyond was dimly lit—she stepped cautiously inside, her eyes adjusting to the difference in brightness. There were hundreds and hundreds of faintly gleaming spots hovering within, as though dying candles were layered throughout the space.

Not candles, she realized as the room came into focus—metal rods, reflecting the light from the wall sconces. At even intervals, in row upon row, the chamber was filled with pedestals that came up to Padmé’s waist. Atop each one was a cylinder a little less than a foot long, no two alike. Lightsabers.

“The Hall of the Fallen,” Jinn said from behind. “For every Jedi who’s ever died in battle, assuming we were able to recover their saber.” Her voice was almost muted, as though something in the room abhorred the thought of sound echoing throughout.

Leaning toward the nearest pedestal, Padmé studied the saber perched atop it. The metal was dulled from use, nicked and scratched where visible; a large strip of leather served  as a handgrip. “Did yours end up here?” she asked. “After they brought you back?”

Gently snorting, the Jedi replied, “I didn’t die, doesn’t count. Anyone who simply retires from Knighthood or leaves the Order has their saber cycled into the regular armory or disassembled.”

Padmé raised her eyebrows, turning back to study her guide. “Jedi can leave?”

Raising an eyebrow of her own, Jinn said, “We’re not a cult, Padmé—may I call you Padmé?” After a nod of assent, she continued, “It doesn’t happen often, but it’s not unheard of. Sometimes they’re drummed out, but most of the time it comes down to a philosophical choice. Happened to my old Master, as a matter of fact—every so often I head to the armory to make sure his lightsaber isn’t falling apart.”

Mentally filing this away into her file cabinet of overturned assumptions about the Jedi, Padmé said, “So you have to die to make it in here. Kinda morbid.”

“I call it incentive.”

Padmé jumped at the voice as it sounded from further within the chamber; Jinn, to her consternation, simply chuckled. “I was  _ wondering _ when you’d decide to say hello, Mace. Why don’t you come out and greet my friend properly?”

After a few moments, a figure emerged from the darkness. Tall, brown as Jinn, shaved head gleaming with reflected light much like the collected sabers, he looked to Padmé as if he were made of granite. “Padmé,” Jinn said as he approached, “this is Mace Windu. Mace, this is Padmé Amidala. Anakin Skywalker’s wife.”

Windu gave a clipped nod, one that Padmé returned in kind. He didn’t appear to like her all that much, but then, she thought, he had a kind of face that didn’t look as though it liked anyone. “Way I hear it, you and Kenobi don’t get along much,” he said matter-of-factly. “Probably makes you a good judge of character.”

Snorting, Padmé replied, “Well, I don’t really feel the need to get along with my friends.”

“Mace doesn’t seem to feel the need to get along with anyone,” Jinn replied, in that patronizing-yet-charming way she had. “I think it’s his defining characteristic.”

“Jinn’s is irritating everyone,” Windu shot back, his expression unmoving. “Almost makes me sympathize with that Sith son of a bitch she lost to.”

If it had been anyone else, Padmé would have assumed the insults were bad jokes. She got the distinct sense Windu meant it.

Counterintuitively, she found her opinion of him was warming.

Rolling her eyes, Jinn said to Padmé, “He’s got a soft spot, somewhere  _ very _ deep down.” Turning her attention back to the other Jedi, she asked, “‘Incentive’?”

“Incentive to go down swinging,” Windu replied, laying a hand upon the metal cylinder at his belt. “Not die moldering away in a swamp or a teaching position like some people.”

Giving a great shrug of her shoulders, Jinn tapped her cane against the flagstones. “As someone who almost died in battle, believe me, Mace, it’s not so great.” Then, a secretive smile playing across her lips, she turned to Padmé. “Besides, what I said to you was technically an oversimplification. There are some Jedi whose lightsabers ended up here even though they didn’t technically die. Twenty, to be exact.”

Snorting, Windu raised his upper lip in a subtle sneer. “ _ That _ again.”

“Don’t count old wives’ tales out,” Jinn countered, the smile staying on her face. “After all, from what I’m told Padmé here thought the Force was one of those before she met General Kenobi.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Padmé said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, “I’m the skeptic who learned her lesson. The old wives’ tale, please?”

“Well,” said Jinn, leaning forward on her cane to bring her eyes in line with Padmé’s, “despite Mace’s dismissal, it’s actually pretty well documented. Here, walk with me.” As she started forward through the rows of lightsabers, Padmé followed; Windu fell in behind them as well.

“Over 1,400 years ago—before the Ruusan Reformation, before the Republic as we know it—ten Masters and their apprentice Knights would sequester themselves in the Old Library hunting for a secret,” the female Jedi said as they walked, her voice falling into the almost singsong cadence of a storyteller repeating a tale frequently told. “When asked what they were studying, they’d reply only that when they were ready, they would bring it to the Order. This went on for months, their visits to the library growing more and more frequent and lasting longer and longer.

“One night, all twenty Jedi entered a meditation chamber in the Chapel of the Force—above this room.” She paused here to raise a finger toward the ceiling. Windu snorted at the melodramatic touch. “Three days passed before someone went after them. When the door to the chamber was opened, all that was left of the Jedi who’d entered were their robes, crumpled and empty on the floor, and their lightsabers, each directly in front of its owner’s cloak and pointed toward the center of their circle.”

They were most of the way across the hall now—up ahead, Padmé could see a single narrow door set into the back wall. “And?” she asked, as the steady  _ tap-tap-tap  _ of Jinn’s cane sounded through the room.

“And that’s that,” Jinn replied, turning to face the other two. “No one was able to figure out what happened. The Lost Twenty, we’ve called them since then. They were a great mystery for a while.” Something wistful passed over her face. “These days, Mace represents the majority opinion on the matter. No one’s seriously looked into it for centuries.”

“Besides you,” Padmé hazarded.

Jinn raised her hand. “Guilty. Everyone needs a hobby.” Raising her cane, she pointed it toward the door a few steps ahead. “Anyway. Their sabers are still here, hence the story. In that room, if you’d like to see.”

Striding slowly ahead, Padmé frowned when she saw that Jinn remained stationary. “You’re not gonna come too?”

“Oh, old tradition. Only one allowed in at a time, to mirror the one who found them. Silly, really, but some silly traditions are worth keeping.”

As she placed her hand on the door’s handle, Padmé felt a faint chill go through her body. The metal was cool to the touch, but it was more than that. She didn’t believe in ghosts—just because she’d been given proof of the Force’s existence didn’t mean she’d gone soft—but something about the low light of the hall combined with the hundreds and hundreds of dead beings’ weapons on display there was enough to give her a minor case of the willies.

She shot a glance backward, and saw Windu watching her.  _ Get a grip, Amidala,  _ she admonished herself, and opened the door.

A single, massive plinth lay in the room, taking up almost all its open space. Arranged across its edge, each one like a point on a clock, were twenty ancient lightsabers. Each was pristine, carefully kept free of wear; they glimmered like tiny stars under the light from the single lamp that hung above them.

As she had in the courtyard above, Padmé felt something like a soft gust of wind.

_ That does it.  _ Turning on her heel, she exited the room.

Windu chuckled grimly as she emerged. “Gave you the creeps, huh?”

“Natural response to low lights and cold temperatures,” she replied evenly, her eyebrows knitting together. “And one bastard already popping out of the dark to try and scare me a few minutes ago.”

The Jedi raised an eyebrow. “Fair enough.”

“Where’d Jinn go?” Padmé asked, casting her eyes around the hall—the female Jedi seemed to have vanished into the aether, nothing around her charge and Windu but darkness.

“Back to the library,” Windu said, snorting. “I think she’s hoping you’ll socialize me.”

Rolling her eyes, Padmé started for the other end of the hall. “If there’s one thing I hate about Jedi, it’s their damn  _ object _ lessons.”

To her mild surprise, Windu fell in alongside her. “And Jinn wonders why I’m not much for Temple life.”

For a few moments, Padmé let the remark pass unrequited, but the silence of the hall weighed on her a bit too much. “So why are you here, anyway?” she asked him. “I thought Jinn said the Knights are all off fighting the war.”

“Not all of us,” the Jedi replied, a mirthless amusement tinged with bitterness entering his voice. “Had a private war, myself, war the Republic had nothing to do with. Then my enclave, in their infinite wisdom”—he paused to throw an arm out in a sweeping gesture—“decided a war worth fighting is a war worth running away from.”

“You know, for a Jedi, you sure don’t seem to like the Order that much.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, as they started up the staircase’s curve, “take a look at the galaxy. Not much of anything worth liking out there.”

As they ascended, Windu was silent for a while, then turned to look at her and said, “So, Amidala, you and Skywalker. Got to say, I have a hard time picturing a woman keeping patient with him longer than five minutes.”

She surprised herself, she let out a bark of genuine laughter. “What makes you think I do?”

He nodded, as if to say  _ Fair enough.  _ “Son of a bitch has got talent, at least. You out there saving the galaxy with him and Kenobi often?”

“Nah, I leave the heroics to you guys. I just try to keep Bail Organa from getting assassinated.”

“Ohhhh, you’re in  _ politics _ . And here I thought I was the one with the terrible job.” Shaking his head, he added, “Can’t say I particularly like Organa that much, but the worst thing he did was let that bastard Palpatine into office.”

Padmé whipped her head around to look him in the eye.  _ Now  _ this  _ is interesting.  _ “You’re not a fan of our friend from Naboo?”

“I get . . .” For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something, but then dropped it. “Bad feelings.” Smiling sardonically, he said, “I’m sure you’re used to  _ those _ by now.”

“Well, when it comes to bad feelings about Palpatine, I’m not used to much company,” she said as they emerged from the stairwell and into the light. She looked away from Windu, her eyes following a few Jedi ambling past them. “Anakin’s best friends with him.”

Windu laid a hand on her arm, then—reflexively, she whirled around, wrenched the offending limb away, and shoved at him. Without shifting position, he arrested her wrists’ motion, then let go. “What the hell?” she barked—the Jedi who’d just passed them turned around, startled by the exclamation.

Her companion raised his hands, stepping back. “Sorry,” he said, and though his face remained stone she felt he meant it. “Sorry.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Windu, you know that? I’m gonna give Jinn a piece of my mind for having me babysit you—”

“Again. I’m sorry,” he said, something in the firmness of his voice shutting her up. “Just—” Hesitation took control of his tongue.

“Yeah?” Padmé asked irritably, watching the other Jedi as they slowly turned around and continued on their way.

“Just tell Skywalker to stay the hell away from Palpatine,” Windu said finally. And with that, he turned on his heel and headed off, light reflecting off the dome of his shaved head.

Padmé watched him go.  _ What an asshole. _

She hadn’t met a Jedi asshole before. It was vaguely refreshing.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, the four of them—Padmé resting her head on Anakin’s chest, Anakin idly sprawled across the grass, Qui-Gon munching on an apple, Obi-Wan sitting on a blanket nearby—took in the Temple’s sky.

The courtyard’s ceiling had gone from sunset to inky black, dotted with constellations in shades of white, pink, and blue. The stars weren’t Coruscant’s stars, and no jagged skyline of high-rises interrupted the view. It could have been from another galaxy, one far away from here. As Padmé watched, a comet shot its way across the dome.

“It’s not Flamewind,” she muttered to Anakin, “but it’ll do.”

He rubbed his flesh hand through her hair, the mechanical one toying with a blade of grass. “You wanna go see the tree again?”

“No thanks,” she said firmly. “Not that I’m not glad you showed it to me, but I think I definitely prefer  _ not _ feeling the Force.”

“Don’t know what you’re missing,” Qui-Gon said in an enticing tone, in between bites of fruit. “You can make things float.”

“Not how it works,” Obi-Wan replied, his eyes fixed on some distant constellation. “Feeling the Force and using it are two different things, Padmé, don’t worry.”

“Well, just in case that thing did something to me,” she said to the general, flopping her head to the side so she was looking at him rather than the ceiling, “you’d better give me what you were gonna give Anakin before he changed his mind and joined up with this outfit.”

“Y’know, I never asked,” her husband said, looking over at Obi-Wan himself and frowning slightly. “Did you ever look into how to do that?”

“Seal yourself off from the Force? Oh yes, between attempts to win you over I wanted to keep my promise.” Obi-Wan looked over at them, imitating Anakin with a mock-frown of his own. “Now don’t be a bad influence, Padmé. I’ve invested two years into your husband running me down to my last nerve, I don’t want that wasted.”

Anakin chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re stuck with me.”

“How is it,” Qui-Gon asked, her smirk audible in her voice, “that the three of you somehow function as an old married couple?”

“Believe me, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan replied, sinking back into the grass and returning his gaze to the sky, “I ask myself that question roughly once a day.”

Settling back against Anakin, Padmé watched the constellations twinkle from thousands of light-years away. Tomorrow, she knew, things would be the way they’d been before—she’d be up to her neck in politics. Anakin and Obi-Wan would be preparing to save the galaxy yet again. Rest would be a distant memory.

But for now, they had each other, and the Temple, and the stars.

 

* * *

 

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: THE OLD LIBRARY** _

The Jedi Temple is home to a massive data collection known as the Jedi Archives. Though most data in the Archives is stored digitally in databanks, some is still kept in written form, printed on paper or flimsiplast and bound in leather. The most valuable of these written tomes—many of which are original editions—are kept within the Old Library.

The Old Library is nestled in the back of the Archives room, sealed behind a great door fashioned from the wood of the Jedi Temple’s central tree. Though the door is not kept locked or guarded, the chief Jedi Archivist is acutely aware of every time it opens, owing to her intimate Force connection with the tree, or perhaps even the door itself. 

Beyond the door lies a circular room lined with shelves of books. Only Jedi who have achieved the rank of Master may enter—the information contained within is considered beyond what a student may know. Out of respect for the sacred nature of the Old Library, the chief Archivist has banned all technology from entering. The shelves are maintained and organized by people, not droids. Jedi Masters may not bring commlinks or datapads inside; even lightsabers must be set aside before a Jedi may enter.


	12. Interplanetary Outreach

Ordinarily, the final Senate session before a recess would be sparingly populated, Senators and their entourages already finishing preparations before heading back to their homeworlds for much-needed rest. This time, however, Bail saw from the rim of his pod, the chamber was abuzz with activity, every one of his neighbors present and accounted for. No one wanted to miss Chancellor Palpatine’s big announcement—whatever that might be.

Beside him, his head of security, Padmé Amidala, whistled. “Newscams are all over the rotunda today. Think Palpatine specifically requested them?”

“Well,” Bail replied, settling into his seat, “whatever it is he’s planning on announcing today, he clearly wanted all eyes on him. Some morale-boosting exercise to raise wartime spirits, I suppose.” Turning his eyes to the bottom of the chamber, where the iris hatch for the central podium remained sealed, he saw that the man of the hour had yet to appear—as did Obi-Wan. “I don’t see why Obi-Wan couldn’t have been seated in Alderaan’s pod,” the senator said. “It sounds like grousing, but . . .”

“Oh, Kenobi can handle himself,” Padmé replied, her brows drawing a bit closer together. “I’m just glad he didn’t bring Anakin to the podium with him.”

Skywalker was still someone Bail only had a passing familiarity with—they’d exchanged pleasantries in the celebrations and honors post-Had Abbadon on Alderaan, but on the whole he knew of the man mostly through talks with his wife and master. “What, you think he’d embarrass himself up there?”

She shook her head darkly. “He likes Palpatine too much.”

“Well,” Bail sighed, “he’s not exactly alone in that. Wartime chancellors are popular.”

“It’s more than that. Palpatine likes  _ him _ too. And . . .” She trailed off, looking frustrated. “Forget it. I just worry.”

Turning his attention back to the cavernous rotunda, the senator caught sight of the cameras she’d mentioned, bobbing back and forth across the entire chamber. “You and me both.”

His terminal pinged with an incoming-message notification—Mon Mothma’s pod had sent something to him. Opening the message with a swipe of his finger, Bail read:  _ Haven’t seen the rotunda this packed since you were voted out of office. The Chancellor must have made sure everyone delayed their vacation plans. _

Mouth rising in a mirthless smile, he typed back:  _ You’d think he could at least be on time after all the effort he put in. _

As if the words had summoned it, the central podium whined with the sound of powered-up hydraulics. Craning his neck downward, Bail watched as the lower iris opened and the pod, along with its inhabitants, began to rise. There was Palpatine, in his usual flowing robe (black instead of red, today). Sapir, his Vice Chair, her mood-sensitive crest of feathers too far away to read. Mas Amedda, his prominent horns intimidating even from this distance. A uniformed figure who could only be Obi-Wan. And—

Frowning, Bail tried to get a better look. Whoever the fifth person was, they weren’t a usual presence on the podium, but they weren’t in military dress either, which meant Obi-Wan hadn’t brought them. They looked to be a human female, but that was about all Bail could discern until the podium had finished rising.

“Obi-Wan mention anything about another person being part of this presentation?” he asked his head of security.

Padmé shook her head. “He didn’t talk to me about what was going to happen here at all.”

The buzzing of conversation started to die as the podium ascended, hastened by Mas Amedda’s baritone rumble of, “Order! We shall have order!” As the central pod grew marginally closer, Bail strained to see who the unfamiliar face was, but was still unable to make them out. Sighing, he gave up and leaned back in his seat as Palpatine moved toward the microphone.  _ Time to see what the show is. _

“Friends and colleagues,” the Chancellor began, in that mild, almost boring manner he had that still managed to project to all corners of the rotunda. “It is my great pleasure to speak with you here in our last session before recess. I’m sure all of you are looking forward to a well-earned holiday.” A note of regret entered his voice as he said, “I myself will be staying on Coruscant during your time away, as the matter of the war requires my complete attention.” Then, with a note of sly humor, “If any if you would be willing to stop by my vineyard on Naboo on your way home and ensure that my staff are keeping the grapes healthy, I’d be most grateful.”

There was a chorus of polite laughter; Padmé and Bail rolled their eyes simultaneously. “How long do you think he practiced that one?” she muttered to him through a mostly closed mouth.

“As many of you are aware,” Palpatine continued, his tone once again growing serious, “a crisis is brewing along the borders of the Republic, a crisis that has to do with our freedom of passage. In the two years we have been at war, the Confederacy has not made significant inroads toward the Core or the Mid Rim. However, our ability to wage war along the outer reaches of our union has been severely compromised.”

From the podium’s central projecter expanded a massive hologram—a map of the galaxy, with the Republic’s territory shaded in blue and the Confederacy’s in green. Running through each were a network of scarlet lines—hyperlanes. “The loss of the Corporate Sector has proven to be a particularly vast setback to our military efforts,” the Chancellor said, and the hologram zoomed in on a particularly large green blob in the upper portion of the map. “Whether through coercion or military might, the Confederacy of Independent Systems has swayed a source of significant resources to their side, and with it not only those resources but a launching point to begin a major offensive against our borders.”

The map zoomed back out and enlarged the glow around a nerve cluster of red lines that were uncomfortably close the the CIS’s new holdings. “Several major hyperlanes are located near the edge of the Corporate Sector. If the Confederacy were to take control of any of these hyperlanes, the result for the Republic could be catastrophic. They’d be afforded arteries leading straight to the Mid Rim and beyond—to our back door, as it were. And with every passing day, they get closer to this goal.”

Much as Bail disliked Palpatine, he had to concede that none of this was inaccurate. Mon had fed him as many bits and pieces of the situation from her seat on the Defense Committee as she could; the slow domino-collapse of the Corporate Sector had been causing her to lose sleep for weeks on end. For the first several months of the war, the defection of unaffiliated planets to the Confederacy hadn’t been cause for much concern; they were backwater worlds, mostly, and none had been members of the Republic in any case. But one thing had led to another, and now . . .

“In order to combat this,” Palpatine said, sweeping a black-sleeved arm upward to encompass the hologram floating above him, “the Executive Branch is taking a more direct approach in addressing the issue of interplanetary outreach than has previously been utilized.”

_ Uh-oh.  _ Turning to Padmé, Bail whispered, “Sounds a hell of a lot like the phrase  _ executive order _ is about to be used. Again.”

“General Kenobi, if you would.” As Obi-Wan stepped forward to join the Chancellor at the front of the podium, a mild round of applause went up around the rotunda; Bail and Padmé joined in, the latter making sure she was the last to stop clapping. Faintly, Bail could see a paternal, indulgent smile painted across Palpatine’s face as he clasped Obi-Wan’s hand. Obi-Wan, in contrast, looked vaguely troubled.

“We must face the possibility,” Palpatine said, turning back to his audience, “that the Confederacy  _ will _ touch the outer reaches of these hyperlanes before we can make any effort to invade and pacify the Corporate Sector. In light of that fact, it is vital that keystone worlds along said lanes be approached and offered membership in this great body, even where they have previously refused. One such world, as I’m sure many of you are aware, is that of Serenno.”

A muted rustle of surprise stirred throughout the rotunda; Bail turned to look at Padmé, who appeared bemused. “What’s the big deal about Serenno, exactly?” she asked him.

“You know how Oseon has basically made a living out of turning down Republic membership?” he asked her, his brow furrowing.

“I do believe I’m the one who told you about that, Bail, so yeah.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, he whispered to her as the Chancellor resumed his speech, “Serenno has made that its dayjob  _ and _ its hobby.”

The hologram above Palpatine changed, revealing a deep-blue orb revolving around a much larger, ringed sphere. “Serenno,” the Chancellor lectured, “is the only habitable moon of the gas giant Aurora. It is a place of great wealth . . . and is fiercely independent. Never in its existence have the people of Serenno expressed  _ any _ interest in joining the Republic. Neither, to this point, have they expressed interest in joining the CIS. However, if the CIS continues to push inward that may no longer be a matter of voluntary decision.”

Turning back to Obi-Wan, Palpatine laid a hand on the Jedi’s shoulder. Bail suppressed a faint desire to shudder. “In light of this, the Republic has sought once more to open diplomatic relations with the moon, and our efforts have not gone without fruit. Serenno has agreed to a summit with our Republic to see if we may combine our efforts against the looming terror of the Confederacy.”

After a moment of stunned silence, applause echoed back and forth throughout the rotunda like peals of thunder.

Bail swore in faint disbelief.  _ The man’s approval rating just shot up several points, without him so much as lifting a finger.  _ No wonder he’d wanted the Holonet here—Serenno opening itself to the possibility of Republic membership was like a planet spontaneously ceasing rotation.

“I have called General Kenobi here,” Palpatine said, performatively raising his voice over the sound of dying applause, “to personally present him with the responsibility of heading this mission. The  _ Coelacanth _ will be traveling to Serenno, bringing with it our foremost military negotiator, in hopes of establishing a permanent relationship with that world and its people.”

What Obi-Wan was supposed to say to this was unclear; in any event, he was not given the opportunity. As the Chancellor continued to speak, the general looked as shocked as Bail felt.

“This is all wrong,” the senator muttered.

“What do you mean?” Padmé asked, though she herself looked wary.

“Tell you later,” Bail hissed. “I want to hear where this is going.”

“Not,” said Palpatine, removing his hand at last from Obi-Wan’s shoulder, “that this will be a purely martial affair. To that end, I have brought before you an unfamiliar face.”

The mysterious fifth person in the podium stepped forward. Now that she was closer, Bail could see an object she held loosely in her right hand—a cane of some sort, it looked like. Taking her hand and gently pressing his lips to it, Palpatine then turned to the rotunda and said, “May I present Qui-Gon Jinn, currently employed by the Office of Interplanetary Outreach.”

Before he could stop himself, Bail shot to his feet, and almost fell over in his haste to return to his seat before he drew attention.

_ Qui-Gon Jinn.  _ It was a name he hadn’t heard in almost two years. The last he’d seen of her had been when he’d gone to visit her at the medical facility on Alderaan where she’d awakened after Had Abbadon had nearly killed her.  _ I thought she’d—that she’d—  _ What  _ had _ he thought, actually? That she’d gone back to spying on him? Joined the front lines?

“Ms. Jinn,” the Chancellor informed the rotunda, “has a personal history with the world of Serenno. While she was studying at the University of Rydonni, she was under the tutelage of the man who has since returned to Serenno to take up his mantle as its leader. Because of her relationship with him and her fortuitous career choice”—another round of canned laughter sounded—“Ms. Jinn will be meeting personally with Count Dooku on behalf of this government.”

Slowly, Bail and Padmé turned to stare at each other.

“Holy shit,” Padmé hissed. Her expression, one of complete and utter bewilderment, was not one Bail had ever seen before. “The leader of a  _ planet _ used to be a Jedi?”

“Leader of a moon,” the senator replied, too taken aback to register the inanity of the correction.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Palpatine had begun speaking about Serenno, Obi-Wan had known why Qui-Gon was with him on the podium. Letting on that he’d already known this woman he wasn’t supposed to have met before had a relationship with Dooku, however, would probably not be prudent. He feigned surprise, at the same time sending Qui-Gon a message through the Force:  _ We’ll talk about this later. _

From her came the reply:  _ Oh, I already figured. _

“Now,” Palpatine continued, “I’m sure we will all wish General Kenobi and Ms. Jinn the utmost success in this endeavor, and hope that our relationship with Serenno will bear fruit.” He wore an expression that Obi-Wan had become familiar with through briefings, debriefings, and constant holonet footage—that of a benevolent grandfather looking down at his clan, one that he supposed was meant to radiate confidence, reassurance, and warmth. Strangely enough, he almost never felt those things rolling off the Chancellor. The man was almost a black hole of emotion; he radiated next to nothing through the Force. Probably just a politician’s closeness, he told himself, but there was still something unsettling about it.

“The second stage of this attempt to secure our borders,” said the Chancellor, adding a note more firmness to his voice than had previously been there, “is not a decision that I make lightly. Elective membership in this august Republic is a free choice, one of the great traditions of our government. And yet, in times of strife, we sometimes must choose to sacrifice certain privileges in the name of security.”

Obi-Wan frowned, trying to parse this last sentence. It was a string of words that, when connected, was alarmingly foggy on meaning.

“With this in mind”—Palpatine paused for a moment, as if summoning the will to deliver a piece of disappointing news—“the Executive Branch will be passing new orders as regards the annexation of non-member worlds.”

_ What? _

Before he could lose the opportunity, Obi-Wan reached out with his senses, encompassing as much of the rotunda as he could manage. He felt familiar presences—Qui-Gon, Bail, Padmé, Bail’s colleague Mon Mothma—radiating alarm. Theirs was not the only alarm in the chamber, but what made the general even more flabbergasted was the  _ other _ emotion swirling through the air. Most of the people present—including Vice Chair Sapir, right here in this podium—were experiencing  _ resignation. _

As though they’d anticipated this, and already accepted it.

“Only systems that fall below a certain population threshold will be subject to this process,” Palpatine assured the chamber, raising his arms as if to placate a wave of dissension that hadn’t actually unfolded. “And only those worlds that are directly adjacent to key hyperlanes or to our own borders. They shall be provided full economic and educational assistance from the Republic, and given complete protection by our military forces.”

Something in his voice quavered, as though he were fighting an upwelling of emotion. “I do not make this decision lightly. This course, forced upon us by the Confederacy, is a tragedy. But in times of war, we all must make hard choices if we are to endure.”

Risking the cameras, the general shot Qui-Gon a look of disbelief. She, for once, seemed to have lost her cool as well.

“Now,” Palpatine said, his voice coming back under control. He did not smile, as he had for most of the session, but the waver had vanished from his speech. “With that in mind, I leave you. May the recess be a gift to all of you, and may we return to each other ready to protect our democracy.”

For a few moments, there was silence. Then, as Palpatine directed Mas Amedda to lower the platform, the clapping began.

At first, Obi-Wan didn’t notice that the Chancellor’s eyes had turned to him; he was staring at Palpatine without really seeing him. Then, he felt a sudden urge to wrench himself away as the other man rested a fatherly hand once more on his shoulder. “General Kenobi, thank you for your presence here today,” he said, sounding for all the galaxy sincere. “Times ahead will be difficult. The Republic needs all the loyal soldiers it can get.”

Possible responses swirled around his head.  _ What are you doing?  _ or  _ The courts will rightly rule this unconstitutional, you have to see that,  _ or  _ I resign my commission in protest. _

Instead, he stammered, “Of course, Chancellor.”

 

* * *

 

“You need to appeal this,” Padmé told Bail as soon as the podium had begun to lower. “Bring a vote against it. Call for a vote of no confidence. Something.”

Bail shook his head, clenching his fists at his sides. “That’s not how it works. Executive orders can only be overturned by the Supreme Court, and Palpatine has appointed the last three justices. And as a for a vote of no confidence, those only work when the legislature  _ isn’t  _ on your side. Believe me, I know.”

“There must be  _ something _ we can do.” A quick glance down at his head of security’s hands revealed that they were shaking. “What’s the  _ population threshold _ that supposedly makes this okay? He didn’t think that was important enough to mention?” She began to pace the two steps available to her within the pod, seething. “What if Oseon falls below that threshold? What if the planet doesn’t  _ want _ ‘educational assistance’ and a Star Destroyer floating in orbit?”

“Hell,” Bail chimed in, still processing what they’d just heard, “even this Serenno summit doesn’t seem to be on the level. Palpatine is sending the  _ military _ as our chief diplomatic force? With Interplanetary Outreach just along for the ride?” As his brain reversed its way through the last few minutes, Padmé’s stunned outburst at Qui-Gon’s appearance leapt out at him again. “And wait a minute, Count Dooku is a—”

He slammed his mouth shut as a newscam swerved past, then mouthed at Padmé, “ _ Count Dooku is a JEDI? _ ”

“ _ Ex _ -Jedi is the better term, I guess.” Drawing her eyebrows together, she stopped pacing for a moment. “I was . . . with Qui-Gon a couple of days ago—”

“What the hell were you doing with Qui-Gon—”

“Shut up, Bail. She told me her old master left the Order for ‘philosophical reasons.’ She just neglected to mention the fact that he rules a gods-damned  _ planet. _ ”

“Moon,” he corrected again before he could stop himself. “Wait a minute, she  _ specifically said _ Dooku was her master?”

“No, but come on, Bail, they said she studied under this guy directly, put two and two together.”

Acknowledging the point with a grim nod, he thought in silence for a moment. “Well, if he used to be a Jedi and two Jedi are going to meet him, that’s something.” Almost immediately, he overwrote his previous thought: “Or maybe it’s not. If he left the Order, maybe he decided to hold a grudge.”

“I’m not ruling that out as the better option,” his head of security hissed. “If Palpatine has the Jedi doing his dirty work for him—”

Another news camera floated by. Padmé locked her jaw shut, then turned and whispered to Bail, “This isn’t the place, but this conversation is not over.”

The senator nodded in firm agreement. “Oh, trust me. I look forward to continuing it.”

Before they left his pod, he quickly turned to his terminal and typed in a brief message to Mon Mothma.  _ We need to talk. Recess or no recess. _

The reply:  _ I’ll be in your office as soon as I can. _

 

* * *

 

Now that the live broadcast of the session had ended, Anakin was free to resume his pacing from one end of the hall to the other, swinging his arms back and forth impatiently, throwing glances at the closed door that led to the central podium’s docking bay. Sure, he was used to Padmé being in on them by now—she’d tease him about how she at least got  _ some _ privileged information firsthand that he didn’t. But Obi-Wan  _ and _ Qui-Gon getting to stand next to Palpatine, while he had to wait outside like some dog?

_ We were directly invited,  _ Obi-Wan had told him,  _ you weren’t. Besides, I think you have to agree it’s a little odd if my aide just accompanies me to a Senate session. _

From what he could feel now, his master might have regretted this loss of moral support. He and Qui-Gon were both full of equal parts shock and worry.

Even as he thought this, the double doors leading to the podium chamber swept open—the two guards who’d been standing silently in front of them shuffled to the side to allow Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to stride through. “How’d it go?” Anakin asked, though he’d watched the whole thing on his personal tablet.

Obi-Wan shook his head; Qui-Gon looked rattled. “I . . . let’s talk about it back home,” Obi-Wan said, throwing his head in the direction of the politicians who remained inside the chamber.

Craning around his master, Anakin looked inside to see Palpatine exchanging words with Vice Chair Sapir. Her crest was flushed grey, the Fosh signal for somberness. The Chancellor, despite his black robes, seemed more in control. Confident.

As if he’d seen Anakin from the corner of his eye, Palpatine turned his head, a smile broadening across his face. “Ahh, Anakin! It’s been too long, my boy!”

Breaking into a smile of his own, Anakin raised his mechanical hand in a wave. “Chancellor.”

Pulling himself away from Sapir, the Chancellor drifted across the podium’s chamber and through the double doors, clasping Anakin’s flesh hand in a firm shake. “We must have a drink, before General Kenobi and Ms. Jinn—ah, do you know Ms. Jinn? Of course not, how silly of me. Qui-Gon Jinn, Anakin Skywalker—as I was saying, we really must meet before you and the others leave for Serenno. Will you send me some dates?”

Agreeing vigorously, Anakin affirmed that he would indeed. “ _ Ex _ cellent, I’ll look forward to it. Now, however, I’m afraid Vice Chair Sapir and I still have some things to discuss, if you’ll excuse us.”

Qui-Gon couldn’t very well depart in their company without raising eyebrows, so Anakin and Obi-Wan strode down the hall alone, on their way back to Obi-Wan’s shuttle in the docking bay. “So Qui-Gon’s old master runs a whole world, huh,” Anakin said, trying to keep his tone light. “Plays her cards close to the vest, that one.” When his master didn’t so much as crack a smile, Anakin sighed. “Welp, I get it. We shouldn’t be too excited about that, what with the  _ other _ announcement.”

Nodding grimly, Obi-Wan exhaled long and slow. “I was just talking with someone over shore leave who felt the Republic hadn’t earned any more of his trust than the Confederacy. I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t at least somewhat right. Not as though things have been perfect with respecting the sovereignty of other systems in the past, but this . . .”

“Padmé is going to be furious, of course,” Anakin said as they stepped into a turbolift. “I hope for the Chancellor’s sake Oseon isn’t gonna be on the list, I’d be worried about an assassination attempt otherwise.”

The general stared resolutely ahead. “I wouldn’t necessarily hope anything for the Chancellor’s sake at the moment.”

“Oh, come on,” Anakin said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Between Padmé getting in a mood every time he had a conversation with the man and Obi-Wan’s thinly veiled criticisms whenever a major news announcement hit, he’d started to think it was better not to mention Palpatine at all. “You saw him up there, he’s as upset about this as anyone. If it wasn’t for the damn CIS forcing this on him—”

Obi-Wan turned to look him in the eye. “Nobody has  _ forced _ him to do anything, Anakin. On the contrary, by making this an executive order rather than bringing it to a vote he’s  _ forced _ it on the Senate.”

“They need more things forced on them, if you ask me. If Bail had been able to declare war, just like that”—Anakin snapped the fingers of his flesh hand—“he could have stopped the clones before they were a gigantic threat.”

“Are you  _ defending  _ this?”

“ _ No _ , I’m just—”

It occurred to Anakin that they were dangerously close to a shouting match, and the turbolift was close to opening at its destination. Clamping his mouth shut for a second, he said, “Look, Padmé and I are from outside. You know I don’t like this. I just don’t feel like throwing a good man out because of bad circumstances is the right call.”

Obi-Wan didn’t look convinced, but he must have become conscious of the volume they’d been speaking at as well. As the lift doors swept open, he said, “I think we’ve been on shore leave too long. Things will be better once we’re in the air again.”

Chuckling—it was a bit of an effort to do so, but he did it all the same—Anakin said, “Yeah, our friendship is at its strongest when we’re getting shot at.”

With a snort, Obi-Wan broke into a reluctant smile. “It’s a diplomatic mission, Anakin. The goal is to  _ not _ get shot at.”

“Yeah, well, who knows,” his apprentice shot back as they started for the docking bay. “Maybe this Dooku guy holds a nasty grudge.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: SERENNO** _

****

The gas giant Aurora is home to a brilliant ring system and over a dozen natural satellites. Of everything orbiting Aurora, only the moon Serenno has a breathable atmosphere. When settlers first arrived, they built crude floating cities high in the sky, believing Serenno to be a “gas moon” with no surface. Nearly fifty years later, Serenno’s secret was discovered: a surface did exist, and it was made of precious metals. 

At first, the settlers mined the metals themselves, utilizing special vehicles and suits to withstand the extreme pressure of the atmosphere at surface level. Now the mining operations are performed by droids, ensuring anyone who gets involved in the lucrative mining business on Serenno stays safely out of harm’s way. 

The export of the moon’s surface metals has made the people of Serenno extremely wealthy. Its citizens want for nothing, and enjoy a lavish and peaceful life in their floating cities under the rule of the Count of Serenno. The moon is not a member state of the Galactic Republic, preferring to stay independent and engage in trade with anyone willing to pay.

TRAVEL ADVISORY: Serenno’s atmosphere is extremely thick at low altitudes. The pressure is deadly to most sentient life forms and can cause heavy damage to vehicles not equipped to withstand it. It is advised to obey all orders from Serenno Launch Control. Do not venture below “crush depth.”


	13. Between Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: We’ll be posting an additional chapter this Saturday due to this chapter’s relative brevity.

Through the vast expanse of Chancellor Palpatine’s window, Anakin watched the sun slowly meet the tops of Coruscant’s skyscrapers, sending up a blinding flare that pierced the orange of the clouds. Wincing, he quickly turned away, the afterimages flashing across the deep red of the Chancellor’s office.

Palpatine chuckled. “I’m told I should polarize the window, but it would dilute the view too much, I think.”

“You should use that as a negotiation tactic,” Anakin replied, blinking hard before taking a sip of the brandy he’d been given when he entered the room. “Just plant the opposition in front of the glass and watch ‘em wither.”

Sighing, the Chancellor pulled at his own glass; the amusement that had been on his face slid away. “If only it were that simple. I’m afraid that, once the recess has come to an end, I’m going to find myself fighting hard to keep the Senate focused on winning the war. I’ve made myself quite unpopular with the latest executive measures.”

The Jedi squirmed a little in his chair. Having the leader of the Republic express self-doubt to  _ him _ of all people felt wrong. “I don’t know,” he said, doing his best to sound upbeat, “they seemed to respond pretty well to me. Watching the newsfeed, anyway.”

Palpatine shook his head. “There is a significant faction who will view the new policy on annexation as an unforgivable overstep. Mon Mothma of Chandrila, Garm Bel Iblis—my own Vice Chair, for that matter. And while Bail Organa says nothing publicly, I know he disapproves. Alderaan is not a planet to be trifled with.”

He must have somehow detected the tension that came over Anakin at the latter name; his face softened. “I know General Kenobi and Senator Organa are close; far be it from me to question your friend’s judgment. But I must say, for Senator Organa to be willing to do whatever it took to derail the clone threat while  _ he _ was in office, only to change his mind once he was replaced . . . it smacks of self-interest.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Anakin shifted and said, “I mean, he’s not the only one who’s upset. I know a—a few people personally who aren’t politicians, and they’re . . . concerned.”

“Believe me, my boy, I’m concerned as well. That we’ve come to this pass . . . ten years ago it would have been unthinkable.” Genuine regret played over the Chancellor’s face. “But I think you would agree, we cannot allow those systems to fall into Confederate hands. Can you imagine, if you and General Kenobi had not destroyed the Lancer station, what the future could have held for those worlds if they remained as they are now, undefended by our vessels? Those who did not give themselves to the Confederacy would see their cities reduced to ash.” As it often did, his voice was starting to lapse into how it sounded when he was giving a major address; it suddenly rang with conviction, as though Anakin were one of an audience of many. “Should we value their freedom more than their lives?”

Shaking his head, Anakin said, “I guess no—”

“Oh dear,” the Chancellor interjected, his voice sinking to its normal volume, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you, Anakin.” Leaning forward, he placed his drink on the table with a tiny  _ clink. _ “Don’t agree with me just because you think I want you to. Tell me what you truly think.” It wasn’t a command but an invitation. “Your wife is from Oseon. Would she rather see it reduced to a cinder, or protected, given better schools, defenses?”

An uneasy chuckle slipped from Anakin’s lips. “You know, I’m honestly not sure.”

To his surprise, Palpatine chuckled as well. “I suppose it was a poor way of phrasing the question.” His eyes drifted behind Anakin, to the dying light of the setting sun. “I’ll tell you why else it worries me, Anakin.”

Discarding his own glass, the Jedi threw a glance out the window to see what his friend was staring at—the embers of a fading light trailing across smoke-grey clouds.

“Do you remember the parable I told you when we first had dinner together?”

Nodding, Anakin said hesitatingly, “There’s this teacher of yours, and one day he asks your class what’s worse—”

“To betray a friend or to betray the laws to which you hold yourself, yes,” finished the Chancellor, his voice approving as though Anakin were a bright pupil. “And after I answered ‘to betray a friend,’ my teacher replied . . .”

“. . . that it’s worse to betray the law, because when you do that you betray the society that raised you.”

“And in doing so betray your friend in a much deeper sense, yes.” A tired exhalation escaped from between Palpatine’s lips. “In making this executive order, I have done nothing that is not vested in me by the laws. If the rest of the Senate feels differently, they are free to bring me before the Supreme Court, as is their right. But that is not what they plan to do.”

Leaning forward, the Chancellor lowered his voice to a near whisper. Anakin had to strain to hear. “To go that way would be to honor the law, but that’s not quick enough for them. It’s about cults of personality, personal interests, nothing more. They want  _ me  _ out, Anakin—they don’t care about the Constitution. If they truly did they would know not only that I am acting perfectly legally, but that Bail Organa overstepped his bounds to a much greater degree. But since they do not care about the Constitution, they will try to oust me through other means.”

The Jedi furrowed his brow. He had felt none of this standing outside the Senate chamber—alarm and sadness and upset at various points from various people, but nothing that could be called sinister.

_ How would you even know, though?  _ he thought to himself.  _ You’re not a politician. And even Obi-Wan doesn’t always know what his senses are telling him. _

“Sir,” he said out loud, “if you’re worried about anything like an assassination attempt—”

Palpatine waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing like that—I can’t believe that we’re that far gone. But smear campaigns? Unlawful attempts to remove me from office? If I can’t restore confidence among certain circles of the Senate, I fear that will come to pass.” Breaking off, he seemed to think to himself for a moment, as though he were debating what he was about to say next. “And—I probably shouldn’t tell you this, Anakin—”

“You can tell me,” the Jedi replied, before he could stop himself.

The reluctance in the Chancellor’s eyes dimmed somewhat, though it did not fade entirely. “Whispers reach me from our intelligence networks. Do you believe in the Jedi, Anakin?”

The words poured cold water down his spine.

“Ah—well, I—” he fumbled, cursing himself as he tried to form a coherent thought. “I’ve . . . I’ve heard the stories, sure, but Padmé always said they were a myth.”

Palpatine nodded. “So do many. I myself would have said so, not so long ago. But now . . .” He swallowed, cleared his throat, continued. “There are abnormalities within our government. Senators suddenly swayed to vote a different way. Disruption occurring among our military. And my eyes and ears among intelligence tell me they believe so-called Jedi may be infiltrating to the heart of the affected organizations—the affected people.” Something behind his eyes hardened, sending a faint chill through Anakin—he’d rarely seen Palpatine showing genuine disgust. “All we can confirm is that they exist. What they want and where they come from—and who precisely they are—we can’t answer.”

For a long while, Anakin could only sit there. Eventually, when it became clear that Palpatine was not going to continue, he said, trying to hide the shake in his voice, “Sir, I . . . I can’t claim to be an expert on the Jedi, but I thought they fought for peace and justice.”

This time, there was no approving remark, no nod of acknowledgment. “For what  _ they say _ are peace and justice. Two words that are entirely up to the users’ interpretation.” The disgust fell from his face, leaving something that seemed very much like controlled terror. “And if those in the Senate who would desert law and order in favor of personal power plays should decide to ally themselves with these warriors for peace and justice—”

Without warning, he reached out and clasped Anakin’s flesh hand. The sensation was startling—Anakin could feel the bulges and veins along the Chancellor’s fingers, could see the spots of age across the skin.  _ He’s old,  _ he thought to himself,  _ and he’s still fighting so hard. _

“That is why you and General Kenobi must not fail,” Palpatine said, looking his friend straight in the eyes. “We must show the galaxy that joining the Republic is the future. If Serenno comes, others will follow. There will be no need for annexation, for executive decree.”

The Chancellor, Anakin realized with a jolt of discomfort, was  _ pleading. _

“Please, Anakin,” he said, tightening his grip on the Jedi’s flesh hand. “Promise me you will not let the Republic down.”

“Sir, I . . . I . . .”

Even though he was seated, Anakin felt as though he were in free fall.  _ One of my best friends knows the Jedi exist and he thinks we’re monsters.  _ A crazy urge to confess surged through him. What would Palpatine do right here, right now, if Anakin were to present his lightsaber? Were to tell him,  _ Well, the jig’s up, do what you want with me? _

As these thoughts swirled around, Anakin heard another voice whisper gently through his mind.  _ The best thing to do is to act in such a way that once he finds out the truth, your mere existence will disprove the lies he’s come to believe. _

_ He needs you to help the Republic. Do it. Jedi. _

Looking upward from his feet and into the eyes of the Republic’s leader—of his friend—Anakin dispelled the hesitation from his voice. “I promise you, sir. We won’t let you down.”

Relief relaxed Palpatine’s face, making it familiar once again—he was no longer a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he was the kindly mentor who’d shown interest in Anakin ever since he arrived on Coruscant, for no reason other than friendship. “Thank you, my boy. I knew I could count on you.”

As the Chancellor released his grip, Anakin repeated the promise to himself, willing the Force to imbue it with some special power.  _ I won’t let him down. I won’t. _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: EXECUTIVE SUITE** _ ****

Located in the executive wing of the Galactic Senate building, the Executive Suite is a collection of offices, meeting rooms, and residential space used by the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. Though large portions of the Senate building are open to the public, the entire Executive Suite area is only accessible by those with special clearance or a visitor pass. It is guarded constantly by an elite regiment of Senate security personnel. 

The Executive Office, with its sweeping panoramic window, deep red carpet and grand furniture, is perhaps the most famous room in the Suite. Though it is thought of as an actual functioning office for the current Chancellor, most heads of state have historically preferred to get real work done in other offices throughout the Senate complex. The Executive Office is instead reserved for meetings, photo opportunities, public addresses, and the signing of legislation. 

Elsewhere in the wing, a private residence is available for the Chancellor’s use. For security reasons, it is preferred that the Chancellor not leave the Senate building at the end of a workday. This luxurious residential space is only accessible through guarded entrances within the Senate building, and contains a private landing pad should the Chancellor need to depart the building for any reason. Its windowless bedroom functions as a “panic room” that can be sealed against the outside world—it features its own air supply and food storage, and is allegedly so fortified it would remain intact even if the Senate building was hit directly by an orbital bombardment.


	14. Bid Farewell

Taking in the trench that unfurled across the ancillary hangar’s floor in one long ribbon of torn metal, Padmé whistled. “Is this gonna make the best impression on the foreign dignitaries?”

“I doubt we’ll be inviting them on board our warship,” Obi-Wan replied, though he too was looking at the massive scar with some disdain as well as retroactive alarm.  _ Just a few feet further and we would have plowed into a wall. _ “At least the fact that we need to look our best means they finally allotted the funds to dig the shuttle out of my hangar.”

“I vote we leave it,” Anakin suggested, his eyes tracking up and down the length of the thing. “Adds character.”

The requisite banter over with, the three strolled down the landing ramp of Obi-Wan’s shuttle and onto the hangar deck. Things were quiet in here; a couple of droids were milling around, and a few crewmen were ferrying cargo crates to and fro, but most of the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s crew were occupied with prepping the main hangar prior to takeoff. “Qui-Gon here yet?” Padmé asked.

The general shook his head. “She was offered an official escort to the ship, but she declined. I’ve a feeling she’s using this excuse to pull that contraption Bail gave to her out of storage.”

“Oh boy, the hot rod?” Rolling her eyes, Padmé conceded, “Well, if you’re gonna be flying it around, I suppose a planet that’s all sky would be the place to do it.”

“Moon,” Obi-Wan corrected. “A very large moon.”

“Oh, don’t you start too, Bail can’t get enough of correcting me.”

Wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders, Anakin asked, “Speaking of him, what’re you two gonna be up two while the rest of us are out making new friends? He heading back to Alderaan for the recess?”

For some reason, it took Padmé a few seconds to process the question. “Oh, you know,” she eventually said noncommittally, “he’s not really sure. The Education Committee is still giving him a lot of work, he might stay overtime. Or he might travel. I just go wherever he goes and hope it’s interesting.”

Frowning, Obi-Wan decided not to follow up further. Her aura radiated uncertainty, and beneath that a desire not to let on about—something.  _ Whatever it is,  _ he decided,  _ Bail can’t be planning something stupid to rescue  _ me _ again. They’ll be fine. _

“How about you guys?” she quickly asked. “Anything on the itinerary besides telling this Count Dooku guy how wonderful the Republic is?”

“I imagine we’ll be shown the sights,” replied the general. “I’ll spend most of the time pretending that I’ve never met the man before, of course.”

Padmé raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you know this guy?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘know.’ Ran into him in the Temple a few times, while he was still with the Order. Don’t recall saying much to him—he was a bit of a killjoy, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah,” his apprentice said, looking at Padmé with a smirk, “we don’t know  _ any _ Jedi like that.”

“Do you”—Padmé paused to lean closer, as though there were some way the man would overhear them from lightyears away—“do you know why he left the Jedi? Qui-Gon mentioned to me that her old master left because of ‘philosophical differences’ or something, but I didn’t really think to follow up.”

Obi-Wan hesitated before responding. He remembered the  _ response _ to Dooku’s departure more than he did anything else. He and Qui-Gon had been away when it happened; when they received the news, she’d been uncharacteristically somber for a few weeks afterward. Many at the Temple had been the same. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I was always under the impression that he was required to take up ruling Serenno due to a succession issue of some kind, and felt it formed a conflict of interest. It was only one of the more plausible rumors, though; I considered it bad form to dig much deeper.”

“So he  _ doesn’t _ hate the Republic. Or the Jedi.”

“I certainly hope not, anyway.”

He felt his apprentice’s mood darken at the latter exchange. Removing his arm from his wife’s shoulders, Anakin said, “The Chancellor is worried. He thinks this mission could end up being make-or-break for the war. I told him we wouldn’t let him down, but . . .” Sighing, he ran his mechanical fingers through his mop of hair. “I just hope Qui-Gon can help us land this one.”

Obi-Wan felt Padmé’s mood darken at the mention of Palpatine, though she refrained from any remarks. He himself hadn’t exactly been pleased to find out Anakin was meeting with the man alone again.  _ I’ll have to talk with him about it again once we’re away,  _ he resolved to himself. Up until now, he’d been able to brush off his dislike for the man as something irrational, immature. But nothing about their present mission felt right. Sending a warship to negotiate; the promise of future annexations if other systems weren’t as friendly as Serenno . . .

Aware that no one had said anything for several moments, he cleared his throat. “Well, this won’t do as a good-bye. Far too somber. Padmé, if you would?”

He extended his arms; rolling her eyes and offering what seemed like a rather forced good-humored smile, she embraced him. “I guess I’ll see you once you’ve finished saving the galaxy again.”

“When you put it that way, it almost sounds too soon.” When she snorted derisively, Obi-Wan looked over at his apprentice: “ _ I’m  _ the killjoy, eh?”

His mouth rising in its usual crooked grin, Anakin pointed toward the nearest hallway. “Give us a minute, General Killjoy?”

Nodding, the general stepped away. “I’d better check with Cody before we launch, anyway.”

As he started toward the nearest turbolift, Obi-Wan did his best to dispel the roiling bad feelings building in his brain. He didn’t need to get bogged down in anxieties right now.  _ Focus on making peace with Dooku. Nothing but good can come from that on its own, regardless of what other plans Palpatine has for outside systems. _

Besides, while Yoda had always lectured him about overconfidence, he thought, his joke to Padmé hadn’t entirely been wrong. Together, he and Anakin had saved the day how many times now? Surely it wasn’t pride to think their streak was going to continue.

_ The Republic needs us.  _ Not Palpatine, the Republic.  _ We’ll do this for them. _

 

_ * * * _

 

“It never feels right, doing this,” Padmé said as the two of them watched Obi-Wan walk away. “Watching you two walk off and have adventures alone.”

“Hey now,” replied Anakin, poking at her and smirking, “I seem to remember you getting  _ mad _ at me for taking you on our last adventure.”

“You know me, I’m never happy.” Taking his flesh hand in hers, she exhaled hard and let her eyes roam over the hangar, taking in all the angles and corners and polished surfaces. “One of these days me and Obi-Wan should team up, go off on a mission. Leave you at home knitting.”

Scoffing, he squeezed her hand. “I can always arrange a fake assassination attempt with the Sawsharks if Bail has you knitting instead of protecting him.”

“He’d probably welcome the excuse to stay away from Coruscant after the Senate recess.”

Despite her dutiful volleys of banter, he could feel the cloud of warring feelings within his wife—he’d always been able to read her moods even before he knew about the Force, and after two years of study it came even more naturally. There was the usual foulness that came whenever Palpatine was brought up—frustration about him and Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon going off alone—worry over that Senate session and its repercussions. And deeper down, anxiety over some hidden thing. Something she didn’t want him or Obi-Wan knowing about.

“Hey,” he asked, his scar changing shape as concern flooded across his face, “you okay? There’s not . . .”

“Anything you should know about? Gods, I should know better than to walk onto a ship with two mindreaders.” Rolling her eyes, she reached up and patted him on the head. “If I wanted you to know, I would’ve told you. Don’t worry, I’m not planning anything dangerous.”

“Yeah, you really know how to reassure a guy.”

He felt guilt flash through her. As her expression softened, she let her hand trail down the back of his head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a jerk. I just . . . I do worry, y’know?”

Gently, he placed his own hand against the back of her head, felt her hair. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll be back in a week with a lot of boring stories about diplomacy to tell.”

“And hey,” she added, gripping the wood snippet that hung from her neck. “Still got this little guy to remind me of you.”

They shared a kiss full of attempted reassurance; when it was done, Padmé started backing toward the shuttle ramp. “Good luck out there, huh?”

Raising his eyebrows, he felt his mouth twitch toward a smile. “Don’t you mean—”

“I’m not saying ‘May the Force be with you,’ Skywalker.”

Chuckling, he raised his arm in farewell. “That’s my girl.”

As the shuttle departed, Anakin rubbed his fingers back and forth, as though he were holding the necklace he’d given Padmé. Overlapping, bleeding into each other, her words and Palpatine’s words coursed through his head.

_ Good luck out there, huh? _

_ Promise me you will not let the Republic down. _

_ I do worry, y’know? _

_ I knew I could count on you. _

“Hang in there, you two,” he muttered to himself. “We’ve got this.”

 

* * *

 

The Temple hangar was mostly a drab affair—full of aging airspeeders and light shuttles, along with a few cargo ships used for making and receiving deliveries. They were kept in good condition, but they were still substance over flash—reliable, mundane, utterly unremarkable.

Qui-Gon’s ship stood out all the more in comparison—a glossy black hole against the dusty browns and greys. It had taken her a while to get over Qlik repainting it while she was unconscious, but she’d gotten fond of the new color.  _ Goes better with my cloak, anyway _ .

Running a hand along the sport ship’s surface, she smiled. It had been  _ entirely _ too long since she’d last taken the thing out, even if all she was doing was landing in Obi-Wan’s hangar bay. “Ready for an adventure, girl?” she asked.

From behind her, Qlik said, “Never understood anthropomorphization of vehicles. Seems like it would get in the way.”

Turning to face the Duros Temple Quartermaster, Qui-Gon rolled her eyes. “Have a little imagination, Qlik. You’re telling me you don’t have pet projects you think of as ‘she’?”

“Well,” replied Qlik, mulling it over, “no.”

“I suppose that’s what you’re there for, to keep me grounded. Figuratively, of course.” Thinking that last bit over, she gestured with her cane. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there’s a crate or something in here I could use to climb into the cockpit? Clambering up freehand is a little outside my range of motion.”

“Right,” said the Duros, extending his hand, “forgot, apologies.” A scraping sounded from across the hangar as a suitable crate started to slide their way. “Hope you don’t expect to use that much over there,” he said, throwing a glance at the cane she held in her right hand.

“I should hope so,” Qui-Gon said, turning the metal back and forth in her hand. “I expect it’ll only be functioning as a walking stick, unless Master Dooku is feeling particularly grumpy.” As the crate came skidding toward her, she stepped out of the way and asked, “You know, I forget, were you around much when he was still with us?”

Shrugging the quartermaster replied, “Never really saw him. Technology wasn’t something he seemed interested in.” As he manually maneuvered the crate into position, he asked, “Think you’ll be able to persuade him?”

“Well, I’ll certainly try. Not as though we parted on bad terms, that’s something.” Thinking back, she chuckled slightly. “I suppose we didn’t really part on  _ any _ terms. He left while Obi-Wan and I were off freeing slaves or something; left me a goodbye message care of the Temple.”

“Least he could have done was explain things in person,” Qlik said; in his tone of voice it was not a judgment but a simple observation. “You weren’t offended?”

“Oh, he was always a man of few words. Sentimental wasn’t his style. I was sad, sure, but that was just a reaction to him leaving in general.” Gingerly, she took a step up onto the crate. “He did send me another message, after the Order let him know what happened to me on Had Abbadon. It was . . . cordial. ‘So sorry, pleased to hear you’re alive,’ that sort of thing.” Turning to look at the Duros, she inclined her head gratefully. “Not as meaningful as you being there in person, of course.”

With a grunt, she hauled herself over the edge and into the cockpit. Qlik really had been taking care of the thing—it still smelled like new. “Thanks for the assist! You’re kind to an invalid old woman.”

“Wait!” the quartermaster called, his eyes blinking in sudden agitation. “Almost forgot!”

Reaching for his belt, he tossed something her way; Qui-Gon reached up and snatched it from the air, feeling cold metal connect with her fingers. It was a black circlet of some kind, almost like a bracelet; the inside surface seemed to be padded with leather. A small device was mounted to the top, a narrow tube with a red button on top. “Another experiment?” she asked, her voice sparking with eagerness. “Really, you spoil me. I thought the blastweave coat was impressive enough.”

“Figure in case trouble finds you up there, you’ll want to be prepared,” Qlik replied, his voice speeding up with nervous pride. “Sends out a length of flexicable when you hit the button, sticks to surfaces.”

_ Ah, maybe I haven’t been as careful as I should have been,  _ she thought to herself, smirking. Out loud, she said, “Qlik, I needed a box to get into this ship, do you really think I’m going to be swinging from a grappling hook?”

It was impossible to read emotions on the Duros’ face, but she thought she detected a rare bit of amusement in his voice. “Been watching the local news. Your nights out tend to coincide with local gangs getting bushwhacked. Figured reports of your medical condition might be . . . exaggerated.”

Qui-Gon felt a grin split her face; she should have been worried at getting caught, she supposed, but instead she was beaming. “Why, Qlik, you’ve been  _ spying _ on me? We’ll make a Knight out of you yet.”

“Seems you have that role well covered.”

She did still need the cane—her back and legs would hurt  _ fiercely _ if she tried to move without it, and if she was honest with herself every one of her “nights off” required days of recovery. But yes, she had been . . . well, “faking” was undignified but probably the best term for it. If she looked like she were getting too well, the Temple would probably decide to have someone other than Qlik start watching her.  _ And that would really just cramp my style. _

“You don’t think I’m running a risk of dislocating my arm if I swing a little too hard from this thing?” she asked aloud, even as she strapped it to her wrist.

“Inertial compensators deal with that. Already tested it on a droid the other day.”

“Poor thing,” she said, shooting a faux-disapproving glare at the Duros. “Anakin’s droid would have a thing or two to say about that.”

“I’ve heard stories. Lucky for us he decided not to donate her.”

The fact that the quartermaster was able to joke around her was almost touching. Goodness knew he tended to clam up around anyone else. Smiling, Qui-Gon raised her newly braceleted hand in a wave. “You’re a good friend, Qlik.”

“Just come back in one piece. And let me know how the prototype works out.”

“Hoping not to need it, but if I do you’ll be the first to know.” Lowering her hand, she began flipping levers and pushing buttons, feeling the roar of the engines under her as the startup sequence commenced. “May the Force be with you!” she called out over the noise.”

“And with you!” came the reply.

Qui-Gon knew she ought to be concerned about this mission. Obi-Wan certainly was—he’d fretted about Palpatine’s intentions behind the whole thing for half an hour after they’d left the Senate building. Abstractly, of course, she agreed with him. And she didn’t know  _ what _ to expect from seeing her old master for the first time in over a decade.

But for now, all she cared about was the purring rumble of the engines beneath her and the knowledge that, in a few minutes, she’d be entering a Star Destroyer and headed for parts unknown.

_ You’re going on an adventure, Jinn. About damn time. _

She couldn’t gun the ship too fast just yet—there was a lengthy underground tunnel between the hangar and the actual exit, which came out somewhere amid a dumping ground. She was in no mood to smear herself along a duracrete wall.

But as soon as she’d hit daylight, she decided she would remind herself how fast this thing could go, and damn the air patrols.

 

* * *

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: GRAPPLING BRACER** _

Tool fashioned by Quartermaster Qlik of the Jedi armory. Sits on the inside of a Jedi Knight’s offhand arm, and fires a thin length of fibercord tipped with a magnetic grappling hook. Once the tip is wrapped around a target, the cord can be swung from as a rope. 

The length of fibercord is slightly elastic, providing much needed “give” so as not to injure the user. A repulsor coil woven beneath the bracer’s exterior also serves to mitigate the harsh forces applied to one’s arm while swinging, though this is only effective to a point.

Useless to someone incapable of manipulating objects with the Force. The grappling wire is not propelled and recalled by the device itself, but rather by the mind and will of the wearer. 


	15. Opposition Research

Bail Organa’s office pulsed with a nervous rhythm. The senator himself sat behind his desk, twirling a writing stylus in his fingers. In time with each flick of the stylus, Padmé Amidala paced back and forth in short strides, wringing her hands. The room’s third occupant, Mon Mothma, seemed comparatively serene—she sat reclined in a chair, slowly tilting the ice cubes in her drink glass. 

Reaching one wall of the office, Padmé spun around and began pacing the other direction. As she turned, she noticed her employer raising his own drink toward her, tilting the glass of whiskey slightly in her direction as if to say  _ Want some? _

She waved a dismissive hand. “Not while I’m on duty.” 

“Suit yourself,” Bail muttered, raising the glass to his lips. After a short sip, he continued, “I don’t think Senator Mothma has any interest in reporting you for drinking on the job, Padmé.”

A glance at the other senator confirmed this—Mon responded to Padmé’s glance with a gentle shake of her head. 

Shrugging, Padmé moved toward Bail’s desk and picked up the liquor bottle, pouring herself a glass as she sat down in the chair opposite Mon Mothma. “Do you think he knows?” she asked, speaking to neither of them in particular as she slouched in the chair and tilted back her drink.

“Do we think who knows what?” Mon asked—from her, the question was not tinged with annoyance or condescension. It was merely a gentle and genuine query.

“Palpatine. Does he know about Obi-Wan or Anakin? Or Qui-Gon? Hell, does he know about this Count Dooku? There are an awful lot of Jedi wrapped up in this Serenno thing, you have to admit.” 

“You think he’s intentionally putting them in danger?” Bail asked, allowing the stylus to fall from his fingers and clatter against the desk as he leaned forward. “He’s made his distaste for the Jedi rather clear to me.” He gestured with his now-free hand, as if offering up the idea to the room.

Mon Mothma shook her head and sat up slightly, then glanced in Padmé’s direction. “You’ve said he’s rather fond of Skywalker. I doubt Palpatine is looking to get him killed.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. Anakin said not to worry, I just . . .”

“Besides,” Bail said, “if the Chancellor were trying to get them killed, he’d send them to another war zone, not Serenno.” His other hand moved in a mirror motion of his earlier gesture, seemingly indicating the apparent contradiction in the two ideas. 

“Not to mention this annexation thing,” Padmé said, completely ignoring the words of both senators. “Power grab, much? And people  _ clapped  _ when he was done talking. If he can get away with this, what does he try next? We’ve got to stop him.” 

“He’s the Chancellor, Padmé,” Bail said. He motioned between himself and Mon Mothma. “We’re just two senators. What can we do?” He leaned backwards in his office chair and reached up to rub his temples.

“Election’s next year,” she muttered in reply. “What if he loses?” 

A short laugh escaped Bail’s mouth. “We’re in the middle of a war. Nobody’s going to vote for a change in leadership. Hell, he’s probably going to run unopposed.” 

“You’re telling me Garm Bel Iblis is going to skip another chance to run for Chancellor?” Padmé asked, raising an eyebrow. Bail opened his mouth to reply, but the open mouth morphed into a grin, and Bail gave a resigned nod as Padmé continued speaking. “All we’ve got to do is give people a reason not to vote for Palpatine.”

“You won’t find one,” Mon Mothma said. Padmé glanced over at her in surprise—the senator had been silent for several moments. “His career here in the Senate is spotless. No scandals, and a straight-down-the-middle voting record. You’ll find that people have minor complaints here or there, but there’s nothing extreme enough to turn a significant portion of the Senate against him.”

“What about before that?” Padmé asked. “His political career started somewhere, he has to have made a mistake along the way.” 

Bail spun his office chair toward the computer terminal at his desk and poked at the interface. “I know he was governor of the capital province on Naboo before he ran for Senator.” As he swiped through the interface, Padmé leaned forward in anticipation—though she noticed Mon remained seated perfectly still in her chair. 

Bail continued, squinting and leaning into the terminal’s display screen. “Let’s see. Looks like he served in the queen’s royal court for a time. Minister of Finance, Deputy Minister of Agriculture, some subcommittee on transportation . . . he was mayor of his hometown, which is out in Naboo’s wine country.” 

“Right, wine country,” Padmé grumbled, rolling her eyes. “He wants us all to go visit his vineyard.” The two senators chuckled slightly, but Padmé remained still, lost in thought. “Wait,” she whispered beneath the laughter of her companions. Then, louder: “That’s it.”

 

* * *

  
  


“The winery?” Mon Mothma spoke the two words in a calm half-whisper, as if she was still considering the thought herself. After a moment, her head shook back and forth. “If you’re looking for a scandal, the family business is hardly the place to find it.” 

Bail Organa sat back, nodding in agreement with Senator Mothma’s words. “She’s right. It’s open to the public. They give daily tours and have a tasting room. He’s not hiding anything at his winery.” 

Padmé waved a hand through the air, the motion accompanied by a scoff. “I know that. The winery is just an excuse to visit Naboo. While we’re there we can search City Hall—or whatever it is they call it. Government buildings are full of old administrative files. Isn’t that stuff public record?” 

“Local laws vary slightly,” Mon said gently, folding her hands as she spoke, “but the Constitution of the Republic demands certain transparency from its member worlds. So yes, at least some files from his government jobs will be public record.” 

“And my reason for visiting Naboo is . . . a winery tour?” Bail asked, raising an eyebrow. He shot a mischievous grin at his chief of security, as if to say  _ you can do better than that. _

Padmé crossed her arms. “You got a better idea, Bail?” 

_ Okay, I guess she can’t do better,  _ he thought _. Then again, neither can I.  _ “It’s going to take some doing to come up with an excuse for me of all people to spend a Senate recess on Palpatine’s homeworld.” 

“Perhaps it isn’t,” Mon Mothma piped up—a smile crossed her face; it was a sort of smile Bail had never seen her make before. As he fixed his gaze on his Senate colleague, she turned to meet it and tilted her head as if to indicate him. “Mister Chairman, I do believe an education-related issue beckons you to Naboo.”

Bail’s eyes widened. “Of course!” he said, silently scolding himself for not thinking of it first. “The university’s fundraising efforts. If I appeared at the university in person to show my support, nobody would think anything of it. It’s the perfect cover.” He returned his attention to his desktop computer terminal, calling up information on the University of Theed. When the display before him changed, a smile formed on his lips. “They’re hosting a fundraising gala at the end of next week. We can be as public as we want with our visit.” 

Padmé nodded. “If we leave now, that gives us plenty of time to poke around. As long as we find what we need before the gala, we’re in the clear.” 

Bail turned to face his chief of security. “Get a crew together and have them prep the ship. Think we can leave tonight?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Wait.” 

Bail’s attention was drawn to Mon Mothma’s voice—the Chandrilan senator had set down her drink glass and leaned toward him. There was concern in her eyes, as there had been in her voice. “I mean no offense in bringing this up, but . . . please try to keep this on the level, as it were. Bail, you’ve shown willingness in the past to skirt the bounds of legality.”

_ Oh no, where is this going?  _ he thought. 

“Miss Amidala,” Mon continued, turning to look at Padmé, “it’s my understanding that this is a trait you and Bail share.”

Padmé’s eyes narrowed, and Bail felt the daggers of her stare. “Seriously?” she said, shaking her head at Bail. “You told her?” 

All Bail could do was shrug and wince at the question—he had mentioned his security chief’s past occupation to Mon Mothma on one occasion, but the senator hadn’t seemed to take issue with it then.

“I say this not to pass judgement,” Mon offered insistently, reaching out a hand toward Padmé. “Only to suggest caution. We  _ must  _ stay above board in this endeavor. If anyone suspects something illegal was done to acquire opposition research on Palpatine, it will do nothing but strengthen his cause.”

“She’s right,” Bail said, an expression of resignation forming on his face. “We’ll need to be very careful. He’ll do anything he can to discredit what we find.”

“If we find anything in the first place,” Padmé grumbled. “But don’t worry about the crime thing,” she continued, turning toward Mon Mothma. “My speciality was grifting bar patrons and boosting speeders, not political espionage.”

“Well,” Bail interrupted, cutting Padmé off before she could dig herself any deeper. He raised his drink glass, nodding at his two companions. “To a thoroughly legal investigation, then.” When Padmé and Mon had lifted their glasses in response, he threw back the rest of the whiskey in his and let it burn his throat on the way down. 

“Good stuff,” Padmé mumbled, indicating the now-consumed contents of her drinking glass. “Better than Palpatine’s wine, I’m sure.” 

Laughter filled the office—it was warm, though tinged with notes of discomfort. Bail knew this was the right course of action, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling they were in for an unpleasant surprise. His plans, after all, had a history of getting knocked slightly off course.

 

* * *

  
  


The cavernous space of the Senate dome’s hangar stretched out before Padmé—the space was big enough to park a Star Destroyer inside, and it ended in a wide mouth draped in the blue shimmer of a deflector shield. 

Normally the hangar—one of several designed to hold the private ships of senators—would be a bustle of activity. Today, row upon row of designated docking spaces sat empty, their owners gone home for the Senate recess. A handful of support staff milled about, pushing carts full of tools or looping fuel hoses back onto their massive storage spools. 

One space in the hangar bay—the one directly in front of Padmé—was not empty. It held the elegant white and blue form of a CR-70 corvette. The ship’s slender central body flared out at the aft section to accommodate a cluster of engine nacelles; at the forward section, a tapered cylinder tilted on its side served as the vessel’s bridge. 

The  _ Sundered Heart,  _ personal vessel of Senator Bail Organa, was being prepped for takeoff; a ground crew, mostly droids, buzzed about underneath, fueling the starship and inspecting the engine housing. Padmé looked on as a dark-haired man in the uniform of a Royal House of Alderaan pilot disappeared into the boarding lift underneath the ship. 

As she felt movement behind her, Padmé tugged uncomfortably at the strap cutting across her body—it ran from her right shoulder to her left hip, and supported a scabbard hanging on her back. She turned to her right just in time to see Bail come to a stop beside her, an approving grin creeping up his face. 

“You wore it,” he said with a chuckle, gesturing to the sword slotted into the metal scabbard.

“Yeah, well, the captain of the Queen’s Royal Guard gave me quite the dressing down last time we visited Alderaan and I didn’t have it on. A blaster’s always gonna outdo a damn vibrosword, if you ask me, but I figured I’d bring it along anyway.” 

Bail shrugged, then turned and spoke in a mocking cadence. “Well, officially, House Organa thanks you for supporting our loyal defense contractors by showcasing their state-of-the-art prototype products.”

“And unofficially?”  Padmé said, shooting her boss a knowing grin.

“If someone tries to attack me, just shoot them,” Bail replied with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, bringing her right hand to her forehead in a casual mock salute. 

The pair stood side by side for several moments in silence, simply staring at the ship before them. Padmé liked that about working for Bail—he didn’t feel the need to feel every moment with conversation. She allowed the sounds of the hangar to fill her mind: the rush of air through the cavernous space, the whir of servos every time a mechanic droid moved, the distorted sound of an announcement over the hangar loudspeaker. 

It was this last sound that pulled her free from her reverie. Though she hadn’t heard every word, she’d caught the gist of it—one of the other ships in the hangar had been cleared for some part of its takeoff procedure. 

“I better go, we’re next in line for takeoff,” Padmé said, taking a step toward the parked starship. Almost immediately, she paused and spun around on a heel. “Before I forget,” she said, reaching into a pocket along her belt and extracting a palm-sized datapad, “here’s our crew manifest.” She extended the datapad to Bail; the senator accepted the device, holding it up to observe its display. 

“Pretty slim lineup,” he muttered. Glancing up at the parked form of the  _ Sundered Heart,  _ he continued: “It’s going to be quite an empty ship.” 

“Less chance of our real intentions getting out that way,” Padmé replied, gesturing to the datapad as she spoke. “I trust these people. Plus, a lot of staff had already left for the recess. Hard to put a big team together on short notice.” 

Bail nodded in what Padmé thought was understanding, then seemed to freeze in place. He squinted at the manifest for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Are we really bringing your droid?”

“Liz has her uses,” Padmé said, silently unsure if she really meant it. “She can process data much faster than any of us can. Plus, I hear she plays a pretty convincing protocol droid.” 

A chuckle escaped Bail’s mouth. “‘A pretty convincing protocol droid.’ Just what we need.”

“Don’t worry. If she’s too much trouble, we can power her down.” 

Bail opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped short when a digital chime sounded from his belt. He reached down to extract a commlink—the apparent source of the chime, Padmé realized—from its place on his hip. “I should take this,” he said after staring at the device for a moment. “It’s Breha.” 

“Of course,” Padmé said with a nod. “See you on board, boss.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Sorry I’m late.” 

The words left Padmé Amidala’s mouth with a great exhalation as she settled into the copilot’s chair aboard the  _ Sundered Heart _ . Sleek white paneling—its glossy surface impeccably polished to the point Padmé could have used portions of it as a mirror—surrounded banks of control switches, dials, and blinking lights. A single rectangular pane of transparisteel sat above the control bank, stretching from one end of the cockpit to the other. 

“You know, when I saw the crew manifest for this trip, I wasn’t sure who I’d get as a copilot.” The man in the pilot’s seat turned to face Padmé and raised a playful eyebrow. “You do know that a CR-70’s a bit more complicated than that death trap you fly in your free time?”

“Yes, Raymus, I’m well aware,” Padmé replied, a grin forming on her face. “And that ‘death trap’ is gonna be docked to this thing for most of the flight, so keep it civil.”

“In any case, I’m glad it’s you. Want to do the honors?” Raymus gestured to a large button set into the control panel in front of Padmé which currently pulsed with a gentle red light. “We’re cleared for startup—all you need to do is push the button.” 

Padmé nodded, spinning in her chair to face toward the outer viewport. She leaned forward slightly and brushed her thumb against the blinking button before depressing it—it gave a satisfying click, and Padmé was almost immediately thrown backward in her seat. 

“Damn!” she exclaimed, blinking in shock as she collected herself from her near-tumble to the floor. “I had no idea this thing packed such a punch.” 

“I keep the dampeners low when I’m alone in the cockpit,” Raymus explained as he chuckled slightly. He reached forward and adjusted a dial on the control panel. “Sorry, I’ll turn them back up. Eleven engines back there”—he thumbed behind him, indicating the aft end of the vessel—”it’s a waste not to feel them, I think.” 

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Padmé said. As she strapped her seat restraints shut, she watched Raymus grip the corvette’s control yoke with one hand and toggle the comm mic on with the other. 

“Senate Launch Control, this is  _ Sundered Heart,  _ requesting hangar departure.” 

A processed voice crackled over the comm speakers in the cockpit. “Sundered Heart,  _ Launch Control. You are approved for departure.”  _

Out the forward viewport, Padmé watched the hangar bay wall seem to pull away from their ship as Raymus backed the  _ Sundered Heart  _ out of its parking space. The shielded exit of the hangar swung into view, and the ship gently glided forward and out the opening of the bay. 

As she felt the ship pitch upward, Padmé heard a door slide aside behind her. The cockpit entry had opened, and Bail was standing in it. “Mind if I join you, Antilles?” 

“Not at all, come on in,” Raymus replied—though his tone remained casual, Padmé noticed he did not remove his hands from the yoke or take his eyes off the viewport. He appeared to have things under control, and she decided she could get away with rotating her chair to face the seat behind Raymus which Bail was settling into. 

“So, what did Breha think of your new vacation plans?” she asked. Bail’s face seemed strained as she asked the question—it only took Padmé a moment to realize why. “Dammit, Bail. You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“I didn’t want her to worry. Or to talk me out of it,” the senator replied, his tone a mix of ashamed and defensive. “She knows we’re going to Naboo for the fundraiser, but I left out the  _ other  _ part.” After silence hung in the air for a moment, he continued: “And you’ve no room to judge; you didn’t tell Anakin.” 

“That’s different,” Padmé insisted, pointing an extended finger at Bail.

“You’re both terrible spouses,” Raymus offered with a chuckle as he guided the  _ Sundered Heart  _ into a queue of waiting ships. Padmé glanced forward past the starships—at the end of the trail of vessels was a shield gate, one of many points of entry or exit through Coruscant’s planetary shield grid. 

“Shield gate Alpha Twenty-Five, this is  _ Sundered Heart  _ requesting a queue bump,” Raymus said aloud as he depressed the cockpit’s comm switch. “We’re transporting government personnel.”

“The ships ahead of us look military,” Padmé whispered to Raymus as they waited for a response. “I don’t think they’ll move us up.” 

As if in response to her theory, a display panel in front of her flashed red before displaying a number—they were twenty-third in line for departure. 

“Dammit,” Raymus muttered. “Guess we’re waiting. Unless you’ve got an old Chancellor’s departure code in your pocket, boss? That’ll get us out of here fast.” He glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at Bail.

“I kept a few of those keys around,” Bail began, “but I didn’t bring any with.” He paused for a moment, seeming to briefly hesitate. “Even if I had one on me, I’m not sure I would use it.”

“Why not?” Padmé asked. “We’re working under a deadline here. We’ve got until the fundraising gala to find what we need. Every minute we’re not on Naboo is a wasted one.”

“It’s illegal,” he shot back, glaring at Padmé. “It’s not like they’d actually come after me for it. All former chancellors do it, but . . . we’re supposed to keep it ‘on the level,’ remember?” 

“Right,” Padmé grumbled, recalling Mon Mothma’s urging. Then a sly grin began to form on her face. “But what if we could get to the front of the line  _ without  _ breaking the law?” Before either of her companions had a chance to reply, Padmé had her commlink in hand. “Get up to the cockpit, would you?” she spoke into the commlink before swiftly returning it to her belt. 

Bail and Raymus turned in their seats in near unison, twisting to face the cockpit’s entry door. Moments later it slid aside, revealing a striking figure—a man draped in a loose and light-colored tunic, his shaved head shining in the white overhead lights of the  _ Sundered Heart.  _

Padmé turned to face the new arrival. “Raymus Antilles, Senator Bail Organa,” she began, gesturing to each of her companions as she looked the mysterious figure in the eye. Then, turning to her coworkers: “This is Mace Windu.”

“Gentlemen,” Windu offered with a nod before looking squarely at Padmé. “What do you want?” 

The woman gestured out the viewport to the long line of waiting vessels in front of them. “I assume you can get us out of here faster?” 

Windu’s eyes narrowed, but he strode forward into the cockpit, leaning down to poke at the communication controls. His fingers moved swiftly as he keyed in a specific frequency and punched the transmit button. “Priority launch code Chrysalis,” he muttered—Padmé could have sworn the words were accompanied by an eye roll. 

There was only static on the comm for a moment, then a voice crackled to life—though it spoke in hushed tones. “ _ Code received. Nice ship you’ve got there, Windu.” _

“Not mine,” the man replied flatly. “I’m traveling with some”—he paused, glancing to his left and right as if searching for the right word—”acquaintances.” 

“ _ I see. Well, you’re next in line for the priority gate. May the Force be—” _

Before the voice could finish speaking, Windu’s hand jumped back to the comm activation switch and slammed it into the off position. He stepped away from the control panel and rose to his full height, turning his head slowly to glare at Padmé. 

“I don’t know what it’s like traveling with Kenobi and Skywalker, but I’m not here to do party tricks. I’m here to bring down Palpatine. Dragging a Jedi up to the bridge to help you cut in line does  _ not  _ leave a great first impression. You better not be wasting my time with this trip, Amidala.” 

Before Padmé could respond, Windu had whirled around and swiftly exited the cockpit. His departure seemed to suck the air out of the space—as Padmé swiveled her chair to face her boss, she was immediately taken aback by the expression of genuine irritation on Bail’s face.

“Fly, Antilles,” the senator spoke through clenched teeth—Raymus did as instructed, feathering the throttle forward and sending the  _ Sundered Heart  _ sailing toward the departure gate hovering in the distance. “Padmé,” Bail continued, “you’ve got some explaining to do. Now.” 

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CORUSCANT LAUNCH CONTROL** _

A high volume of spacecraft traffic is arriving at and departing from the planet Coruscant on a near-constant basis. In the interest of safety, this traffic is more tightly monitored and controlled than almost anywhere else in the galaxy. This monitoring is done by a special branch of the Republic Defense Force: Coruscant Launch Control. 

CLC regulations mandate that all civilian vehicles arriving at or leaving Coruscant must fly on predetermined exit and entry paths under the control of an autopilot system. A complex network of droid brains directs and queues ships in an orderly fashion at one of Coruscant’s hundreds of planetary shield entry gates. These droid brains are overseen by organic launch control staff, who are responsible for communicating with pilots and intervening with the traffic control system in emergencies. 

Vessels are sorted for departure based on their status—Defense Force ships are queued first, followed by government personnel and shipping/freight vehicles. Civilian ships are placed last in line—to encourage the use of mass transit over personal spacecraft, larger ships are queued before small ones. Leaving the galaxy’s most populous planet is not a quick process—it can often take several hours for the lowest-priority ships to be cleared through the shield gate. Key members of the military and government are issued passcodes that allow them to bypass the ship queue as needed and immediately depart Coruscant. 


	16. Prior Planning

For all his other faults, Valis had to admit, Maul was not without a certain rough grace when it came to combat, whether it was hand to hand or in a starship. Pirate fighters were going up in great bubbles of flame one after the other, the warlord claiming most of the kills—the Givin fighter pilots were mopping up the rest.

The main frigate, however, was proving to be a bit more formidable. It was no real threat to the  _ Charybdis _ , but its shields seemed to have been souped up past what was legally allowed; the turbolaser shots were merely hindering it rather than blowing it to bits. “We could always try a blitz,” Rama suggested from her chair. “Get ‘em out of our way.”

“We don’t do those anymore,” Valis shot back curtly. “Collateral damage was always too high, the things were an idiotic strategy from the beginning.” Squinting, she watched a few more emerald bolts of plasma spatter against the thing’s shields; then, she instructed her first officer, “Hail them.”

When the pirate captain’s hologram spread itself across the viewscreen, the admiral admitted to herself that she was a bit impressed.  _ Doesn’t look rattled at all.  _ What he looked was pissed off, his Weequay brow ridges creating an expression of perpetual irritation. “This is Admiral Sephone Valis of the Confederacy of Independent Systems,” she told him. “To whom am I speaking?”

“ _ You’re speaking to Raja Orlen of the Bloody Talons, and I’ll thank you to pay the toll or leave this damn system, _ ” the Weequay replied. “ _ We’ve no use for the Confederacy  _ or _ the Republic out here unless they pay up. _ ”

_ Damn fool is compensating, doesn’t want to look weak in front of his men.  _ Nevertheless, she found herself respecting him. Would she have had the guts to pull a stunt like that facing down a military vessel back in her mercenary days? Probably not.

“I’ll give you marks for audacity, but in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re staring down the barrels of three separate capital ships and Warlord Maul is currently chewing your starfighters to mincemeat,” she replied evenly. “My counteroffer is that you leave this junction  _ now _ and clear our path to Wayland. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to blow you to pieces, Bloody Talons or not.”

Orlen’s confident posture dropped by a fair amount when he heard Maul’s name, and then plummeted a bit more as the explosion of yet another one of his starfighters flashed across his view. Nevertheless, to his credit, he didn’t immediately acquiesce to her demand. “Tell me,  _ Admiral _ , what to prevent us from just turning on our hyperdrive and plowing through you? We learned from the best.”

Valis felt her lips pulling back in an imitation of Maul’s feral not-grin. “You’re a  _ pirate _ , Orlen. You don’t commit suicide when someone offers you the opportunity to run away. Besides”—at this she turned to Rama and raised her eyebrows—“much as I hate to break this to you, we have a gravity well projector.”

The Pau’an shot her admiral’s grin back at her and flipped a very large switch on her instrument panel. A massive  _ thunk _ sounded throughout the bridge as the projector powered on.

“I’m afraid,” Valis continued, turning back to the hologram, “you’re not going anywhere unless we agree to it.”

The priority communication alert light suddenly began to flash from the comms console. Frowning, Valis instructed the clone who sat there, “Feed it to my earpiece.”

“ _ Stop wasting time and start shooting again, _ ” Maul’s voice rasped into her ear a moment later. “ _ Their fighters are almost gone. _ ”

Ignoring him, Valis resumed speaking to Orlen. “You can still get out of this with your dignity intact, Orlen. Find another junction to picket. The Warlord seems to think I should resume shooting at you, and he seems to be taking down your remaining”—she flicked a glance down at Rama’s sensor screen—“five starfighters in rather a hurry.”

“ _ Does he, now? _ ” asked the pirate. “ _ Well, we can’t let him do that, can we? _ ”

Through the viewport, Maul looped into a tight turn over and around the frigate, chasing a Z-95 and peppering it with laser fire. “ _ Valis, stop. Wasting time. _ ”

Punching at the earpiece with her index finger as though she could jab the warlord through it, Valis again ignored him and spoke to Orlen. “I really fail to see how you’re going to  _ not let him do that _ .”

The sullen expression on the Weequay’s face started slipping toward a satisfied smirk. “ _ Let me show you. _ ”

Far too late, something pounded at Valis’s brainstem—something she belatedly realized had been scratching at it for the last minute or so, the dark side hissing a warning. “Maul,” she barked, wrenching her earpiece back on, “get away from—”

_ Thrummmmmmmm _

The  _ Charybdis _ ’ auditory simulators vibrated as Rama’s sensor screen showed a spike in energy output from the pirate frigate. At the same time, Valis heard a snarl of frustration crackle through her ear.

Through the viewport, she watched Maul’s  _ Scimitar  _ hover in space. Motionless.

“ _ Much as I hate to break this to you, _ ” Orlen told her, his face splitting into a mirror image of her earlier grin, “ _ we have a tractor beam projector. _ ”

Before Valis could snap back a reply, he continued: “ _ Now, we’re pulling Warlord Maul—if you weren’t bluffing earlier—into our hangar. Once he’s safely aboard, we can discuss the terms of  _ your _ withdrawal. _ ”

And indeed, the  _ Scimitar _ was being slowly pulled toward a slot that ran along the side of the frigate, gleaming with ray shielding.

“Maul,” Valis hissed into her earpiece. “Maul!”

No reply.

Swearing viciously under her breath, she told the hologram, “Big mistake.” Before the Weequay could reply, Valis ripped her hand across her throat; the clone manning comms cut the signal.

“All starfighters,” the admiral continued across Confederate channels, “cease fire and withdraw from the battle.” Then, turning to Rama, she said, “Hold fire and wait for them to hail us.”

Her first officer looked about as close to  _ distraught _ as was possible for her. “Admiral,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level, “they just  _ captured Warlord Maul.  _ We can’t just sit here.”

“Sitting here is  _ exactly _ what we are going to do, Rama, until they hail us. Now shut up and do what I tell you.”

Valis dimly felt the fear that had seized Rama; it was flowing through her as well, on multiple levels. Maul getting captured by a bunch of pirates would be a  _ massive _ propaganda coup as soon as the Republic found out. More than that, it would instantly expose the fact that she’d launched this unauthorized mission; Mekosk and the rest of the board would use it as a pretext to oust her at best, try her for treason at worst.

Both these fears, however, were buried in the back of her mind. Drowning them was an even worse emotion, one that caused her hands to shake as she stared out the viewport at the pirate frigate and furiously tried to strategize.

This was about as embarrassed as Sephone Valis had felt in her entire life.

 

* * *

 

Raja Orlen had to admit, watching three capital ships emerge from hyperspace rather than the usual cargo convoy or wandering passenger ship had unnerved him. Watching a smaller ship of unknown origin wipe out most of his starfighter complement nearly singlehanded had alarmed him quite a bit more. And finding out that the pilot of that ship was none other than Warlord Maul himself? Well, that had almost been debilitating.

For a few seconds, anyway. Then he’d adapted.

It was the most valuable weapon in a pirate’s arsenal—the ability to take any situation and turn it to one’s advantage, no matter how dire. It had saved him more than once in the past.

And today it was about to make him a very rich man.

Squinting through the dim red emergency lighting on the already dingy bridge—he poured most of the credits they cleared from robberies into keeping the ship afloat and paying his men enough that they wouldn’t mutiny, he didn’t have time to make the place look pretty—Orlen watched the Confederate starfighters scramble back for the  _ Charybdis _ . Chuckling, he said to his first mate, “As soon as Valis hails us again, let me know. And switch the viewscreen over to the hangar cameras.”

A moment later, the view of their enemies snapped away, replaced by four separate angles on a currently empty hangar. Within seconds, however, little dots began to stream into the picture—twelve of them, carrying shotguns, blaster rifles, vibroblades, electrostaves, and repeaters.

“Let’s see you dodge  _ that _ , Warlord,” Orlen hissed through pitted teeth.

The dots primed blasters, unsheathed swords, planted staves solidly on the deck. And then, with a whir, the two auto-defense cannons mounted to the hangar ceiling powered up.

The way Orlen figured it, no matter how badass this Maul was supposed to be—and there were plenty of panicked whispers and rumors about him since the war started, almost none of them verified—even he couldn’t hope to face off against all that firepower at once. He would come quietly. And if he didn’t . . . well, Valis wasn’t about to risk firing on her pal even if Orlen refused to show her the Zabrak alive and well.

As he finished this thought, nodding to himself in satisfaction, the nose of Maul’s ship pierced the hangar’s ray shielding.

It nestled down onto the deck gently—the warlord had apparently extended his landing gear already rather than trying to break free. Reaching over for the ship’s PA, Orlen spoke slowly, drawing out his address to the Zabrak:

“Warlord Maul. Thank you for being compliant so far. If you’re having second thoughts about that, I’ll warn you that there are a dozen men and two defense cannons pointed directly at your ship. If you try to resist in any way, I’m afraid we’ll have no choice but to—”

Without warning, a fierce pain lanced through the Weequay’s head.

It was as if someone had driven a chisel through his temple. Clutching at the pain and crying out, Orlen dropped the PA mic; it clattered to the ground with a harsh squeal of feedback.

And then, clear as day, he heard a voice in his head.

_ Save your breath, _ something guttural and rasping hissed at him.  _ It’s one of your last. _

Grinding his teeth together in agony, Orlen shook his head back and forth repeatedly, trying to clear it. As the pain abated to a more manageable level, he whirled back to the security cams to see that the landing ramp of the warlord’s ship was beginning its descent.

“Shoot the bastard as soon as you see him,” he growled.

An instant later, twelve blasters opened fire.

That should have been it—no being, no matter how good their reflexes, could dodge twelve shots at once from that narrow a choke point. Maul’s corpse would be ragdolled against the floor of his own ship, ready and waiting to be dragged to the brig while Orlen conducted negotiations with Valis. The pirate captain was so assured that this future would come to pass that for a moment his eyes didn’t register what was being broadcast through the cameras—they saw the single burst of laser fire tear into the warlord’s ship, then the twelve soldiers marching forward to collect their kill.

By the time he registered that this was not, in fact, what was happening, it was already too late.

Somehow, half the damn fools must have managed to misfire, because blaster rounds were ricocheting back toward the men who’d shot them. The frontmost three went down, clutching at smoking holes in their armor; the remaining nine stumbled backward, panicking at something Orlen couldn’t see.

Then the auto-defense cannons triggered.

Staring at the screen, Orlen let a torrent of obscenities start to stream from his mouth. It was  _ impossible _ to see what was going on—pulses of plasma were ricocheting all over the deck, burning the cameras white with afterimages, the audio feed scrambled with explosions and screaming men. Snarling in disgust and abrupt, all-consuming alarm, Orlen turned to his first mate. “Shut the damn things off!  _ NOW! _ ”

The mate hastily jabbed at five or six buttons at once, trying to do just that. A stray cannon bolt caught one of the security cameras, whose feed dove from white to black. Noise continued to scream through the audio feed. Then, finally, precious seconds later, the cannons powered down.

The three remaining cameras showed nothing but smoke. Orlen stood motionless, waiting for the haze to clear enough to see what was going on.

As the fog lifted, he felt fresh alarm latch onto his brainstem and bite down.

Bodies littered the deck. Charred, crumpled, and in some cases dismembered. His brain working furiously, Orlen counted the corpses. Three, six, nine, twelve.

_ Twelve. _

“Kill the cameras,” the Weequay barked to the bridge crew—his first mate, the pilot, the gunner, and two bodyguards. “Seal off the bridge. And activate all the auto-defense turrets on the ship.”

“Sir?” replied the first mate, still sounding punch-drunk from what he’d just watched.

“ _ All _ of them, dammit, now!”

With this last command, Orlen drew the two pistols he kept holstered at his waist and crouched behind his captain’s chair, his head and the guns peering over the top.

The two guards moved to bracket the doors as the durasteel blast shield slammed down outside. First mate, pilot, and gunner drew their own weapons, taking up positions.

All six waited in silence.

The emergency lights’ flickering glow did nothing to ease the tension of the situation; crimson-tinged shadows loomed across the bridge, deepening and retreating at even intervals. Part of Orlen wanted to command someone to restore the normal lighting, but he kept his mouth shut. His mind insisted that if we were to break his concentration for even a moment, the warlord would slide out from one of the shadows.

Slick with sweat, he tightened his grip around his pistols. Exhaled. Anticipated.

In the distance, a faint, steady pounding could be heard. “That’s the A-deck cannons,” the pilot needlessly clarified for everyone.

_ Made it to this deck already. God  _ damn _ , the man is fast. _

The distant pulsing of laser fire abruptly ceased; a few moments later, the noise started up again, closer this time. Orlen thought to himself— _ He got past twelve men. Three decks’ worth of cannon fire. That’s not just lucky, that’s impossible. Not at the speed he’s going . . . _

He began to wonder how many of the rumors he’d heard whispered about the warlord had more than a grain of truth to them.

Once again, the sound of blaster fire ceased. Utter silence fell over the bridge; Orlen could hear all his men breathing. To give himself something to do, he checked to make sure both his blasters were primed. As he did so, another steady pounding began to sound from outside.

Not blaster fire. Footsteps.

They persisted, growing louder and stronger. Orlen glanced around the bridge, studied his men’s faces as they pointed their guns at the bridge doors. “Don’t wait for my order,” he told them. “Shoot him as soon as he’s visible.”

_ Step,  _ sounded from outside.  _ Step. _

_ Step. _

The noise stopped.

_ Snap-hisssssssssssssssssss _

A single point in the center of the doors—only as big around as Orlen’s thumb at first, but widening all the time—began to glow white-hot.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes had passed, and Valis was about to lose her mind.

At the beginning of those ten minutes, she had sworn to herself she would not be the one to reinitiate communications. She already looked weak in front of Rama and the rest of the bridge crew for allowing this to happen, for allowing him to go off on his idiotic dogfight—if she blinked first, she would only look worse.

Where Maul would be pacing in frustration by now, fit to wear a hole in the deck, the admiral remained stock-still, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the frigate through the viewport. She didn’t so much as blink.

“Admiral,” she heard from her left, “we can’t just sit here—”

“Officer Rama,” Valis said, distantly surprised at how calm her voice sounded, “shut up.”

The five remaining pirate starfighters traced circles around their frigate, taunting the Confederacy. Part of her dearly wanted to order the clone fighters back out there to blow them out of the sky, just as petty retaliation—the same part that wanted to open fire on the frigate right now, and damn the consequences.  _ The Maul part, _ she thought inanely. But the Zabrak had just demonstrated where that approach would lead them.

And so, she waited.

A further two minutes passed before Rama inhaled sharply and began, “Admiral—”

“Officer,” Valis snapped, whirling to face the Pau’an, “did I not make myself clear?”

“ _ Admiral _ ,” her first officer insisted, “it’s the frigate. They’re hailing us.”

Flushing slightly, Valis cursed herself for losing composure. “Put them through,” she ordered, her hands clasping together tight enough that they started to hurt.

“Channel open.”

For several moments, there was nothing, merely a slight hiss of recycled atmosphere playing over the line.  _ Oh, they want to play games now?  _ Valis, keeping her fury under control, said to the frigate, “This is Admiral Valis. I demand that you return Warlord Maul at once or be prepared to—”

“ _ I’ll return myself, _ ” an all-too-familiar voice replied over the comm. “ _ You’ll find this ship’s shields are down—as soon as I’m clear, blow it out of the sky. _ ”

The line clicked off.

Valis, speechless, looked down at Rama, whose face was suddenly splitting with a sharp-pointed grin.

A moment later, the Pau’an began to applaud.

The clones sat there in silence.

 

* * *

 

“You’re angry,” Maul said, smirking, as he paced a circle around his quarters. “Good. Use it.”

Valis, her voice shaking, advanced on him. “I ought to throw you in the brig right now. You’re clearly a threat to your own safety.”

With a snort that reverberated throughout the room’s spartan confines, the warlord stopped moving, looked her in the eye. His amber irises radiated contempt. “After two years I thought you’d be less stupid.”

“Do you  _ realize _ what your getting captured could have meant? To the war effort, to my position with the Executive Board, to—”

“I know  _ exactly _ what it meant,” he cut her off, raising his upper lip in something between a snarl and a sneer. “That frigate, out of our way.”

“Don’t be a  _ child _ , for god’s sake! You can’t tell me you planned for that to happen—”

“No. You plan. I let the Force guide me.” He shook his head—Valis could feel the disgust radiating from him. “The dark side gave us an opening. I took it. The battle was won, and now we’ve tied up one loose end.”

If she were a shade tireder and a degree stupider, she would have hauled off and slapped him across his arrogant, tattooed face. “The battle would have been won either way. If you’d stayed on the  _ Charybdis _ , our fighters would have destroyed theirs, we would have worn down their shields, they would have left the system spreading tales of our military might or been blown to pieces. None of those outcomes risk one of the Confederacy’s most valuable assets being strung up by a band of bloody  _ pirates _ and  _ ransomed _ .”

“You want to do it,” he replied.

The Zabrak’s stance shifted, hardening. His eyes narrowed. “You want to take your lightsaber and swing it at me.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to stop with this damned foolishness, to stop trying to goad her into bloody  _ sparring practice _ right now. But then she became conscious of a cool, smooth sensation against her right hand. When she looked down, she saw the metal cylinder that had formerly hung from her belt clutched in her fingers.

Maul’s lips parted in that predator’s threat display. “Do it. Now. Act in the moment.”

Exhaling slowly, she relaxed her grip on the saber’s hilt. Returned it to her belt. Looked Maul in the eye.

“Unlike you, I’m not going to use the dark side as an excuse to justify my stupid actions. I’m not going to try to assassinate my only high-ranking ally in the Confederacy because an energy field tells me it would  _ feel good _ .”

_ Oh, but it would,  _ she felt it scrabble at the back of her brain,  _ to take that red blade and spear him on it, to wipe out your frustration once and for all— _

With every ounce of concentration she had, Valis visualized a durasteel blast door between her and the voice. Then she slammed it downward.

When she looked back up at Maul, he’d slumped, his arms returned to his sides. She could feel his contempt again, but beyond that something almost revolting in its presumption.

Maul was— _ disappointed _ in her.

“Go back to the bridge, then,” he hissed. “Justify your stupidity through strategy instead.”

She could have tried for the last word, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

She turned on her heel and left.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: HYPERLANE EXTORTION GROUPS** _

Outside Republic-controlled territory, hyperlanes and their intersections are often left unattended by governments, particularly in the space that sits on a region or sector border. Over time, these border zones can fall into the control of independent groups who turn the hyperlanes into a sort of “toll road,” demanding payment from travelers in return for safe passage. 

Officially designated “Hyperlane Passage Extortion Groups,” these pirate gangs are begrudgingly tolerated by those who travel throughout the galaxy. Shipping corporations with delivery routes through pirate-controlled areas typically budget with the expectation of paying the extortion fee, and independent travelers are often advised by local governments to do the same. 

As the Clone Wars have dragged on, Hyperlane Passage Extortion Groups have tended to drift toward extreme ends of the business. Some, not wishing to deal with Republic and Confederate warships moving about the galaxy, have disbanded entirely. Some have maintained a “business as usual” attitude, engaging with military and civilian ships alike. Still others—most notably the cartel-sanctioned groups guarding the entrances to Hutt Space—have dug their heels in and become more aggressive in their methods, rigging up ersatz gravity well projectors by dragging high-mass asteroids directly into hyperlane routes. These contraptions yank would-be customers back into realspace, preventing skilled navigators from skipping over the patrolled intersections with well-timed hyperspace jumps. 


	17. Stratum Apolune

The trio of Jedi seated in the shuttle cockpit let out a synchronized sigh of relief. Piloting the shuttle  _ Osiris  _ down to Serenno had been no easy task. Anakin and Qui-Gon had no choice but to fly directly through a series of harrowing thunderstorms, and their landing approach had been completely blind—the entire capital city of Serenno was currently enveloped by a dense cluster of clouds. 

Anakin stared out the viewport; he could barely see the shuttle’s nose through the thick blanket of cloud that shrouded their assigned landing platform. Unbuckling his restraints and leaning back in the pilot’s chair, he glanced over at Qui-Gon and shot her a slight nod. 

“Thanks for the help,” he said, sounding a fair bit more worn and exasperated than he had intended to. “Sorry to keep you from flying the hot rod down here.” 

Qui-Gon waved a dismissive hand and smiled in Anakin’s direction. “Hey, it’s my pleasure. I finally found a feat of piloting that Anakin Skywalker couldn’t accomplish by himself. That’s worth the extra trip up to fetch my ship.” 

“Oh, very funny,” Anakin sneered back at her. His lip curled upward into a grin, and one eyebrow arched higher than the other. “Maybe I could have done it alone, and I just invited you along so you’d feel useful.” 

“That’s enough, you two,” Obi-Wan cut in, leaning forward from the passenger seat behind Anakin. The movement continued as the general rose to his feet and turned for the cockpit door.  “We’re here on business. We’d better not keep our hosts waiting.” 

“Sorry, Master,” Anakin replied as he stood. His tone was one of humor, not genuine apology—he tossed a lopsided grin at Qui-Gon as soon as Obi-Wan turned his back. 

The trio emerged into the main cabin of the shuttle, and Anakin winced slightly at the sight. The cabin seemed, for lack of a better term, a bit lived in—its normal level of mess had not been helped by the rough descent into Serenno 

A pair of Jedi meditation mats were rolled out along the floor—one much more worn down than the other, the newer of the two slightly askew from its twin. A kitchenette unit had been grafted onto one wall of the shuttle to allow for preparation of meals, and during flight its sink had somehow managed to contain the handful of dirty dishes within. On the wall opposite the kitchenette, a pair of foldaway bunks had been welded to the bulkhead—one was made, the other not. The refresher unit was a fair bit larger than the one found on a typical transport shuttle, and a small workbench and shelf—the former of which was cluttered with an open toolbox and pile of junk electronics—rounded out the furnishings. 

“We’d better not let our hosts see the boys’ room, either,” Qui-Gon remarked in a playful echo of Obi-Wan’s earlier words. Pivoting on her cane, she reached for the control panel to lower the shuttle’s boarding ramp. 

As the ramp descended, groaning under the weight of the three humans, an unsettling wave of warning washed over Anakin. Intense nervousness gripped at his heart as the boarding ramp settled on the surface of the landing platform—around the three Jedi, the thick fog of cloud cover made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. 

“There’s no one here,” Anakin muttered. “Sure, just leave us to stand out on an empty shuttle pad. This is off to a great start.” 

“Let’s try to stay optimistic here,” Obi-Wan said, drawing out the words in a tone Anakin had long since come to recognize as his “teacher voice.” “The Force hasn’t seen fit to warn us of any danger.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s not sending any good feelings either.” It was Qui-Gon, inserting herself into the conversation between master and apprentice—this earned her a woeful look from the elder Jedi. “Sorry,” she whispered with a shrug in response to Obi-Wan’s glare. 

Anakin swept his gaze in a wide arc, trying to heighten his senses through the Force and push his vision through the dense clouds. It wasn’t working; the heavy white fog remained wrapped around them, its humid density bordering on oppressive. He took a step forward, out from the shadow of the shuttle  _ Osiris  _ and in the direction he assumed the door would be.

He reversed this action almost immediately, hastily retreating when light poured into the clouds from a rectangular opening several feet away. Someone was emerging to greet them. 

The figure, cloaked in light and clouds, seemed nothing but a slender shadow. Tilting his head to one side, Anakin shot a whispered query at Qui-Gon. “Is that him?” She shook her head—she was squinting so intensely Anakin couldn’t be certain whether she was trying to read the new arrival through the Force or just get a look at them through the cloud cover. 

The mystery figure began to move toward the group of Jedi; as they took a step forward, Qui-Gon gasped. “Lorian?” she whispered under her breath. 

“Who?” Obi-Wan asked, matching her volume level. 

“Dooku’s husband,” came the reply.

Fear loosened its grip on Anakin’s heart, and his face brightened in turn. “That’s good, right? He’s sending family to meet us.” 

“We’ll see,” she whispered back. “I’ll take point on this one.” Leaning into her cane, Qui-Gon stepped in front of the other Jedi—though Anakin detected a fair bit of reluctance in her gait and her mood. 

As the figure—Lorian—emerged from the clouds, the aura of reluctance vanished from Qui-Gon. The man was slender, of moderate height, and sporting a formal suit. His stark white hair, though cut short, appeared to have been tossed about by the wind—it was, by Anakin’s estimation, somewhat unkempt, though Lorian made no attempt to adjust it as he strode toward the new arrivals. 

A warm smile grew on Lorian’s face as he approached Qui-Gon; he reached out to grasp her hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Madame Jinn,” he said, that warm smile plainly evident in his voice, “it’s been too long.” 

“It certainly has, Professor Lorian,” she replied, matching his expression with a smile of her own. 

“Ah, not ‘Professor’ anymore, I’m afraid,” Lorian said, stepping back from Qui-Gon and wagging a playful finger in the air. “As it turns out, being married to Serennan royalty is, quite literally, a full-time job. Viscount Lorian, at your service.” As he spoke his title aloud, Lorian accentuated the word with a slight nod of his head. 

Anakin felt the rush of air beside him as Obi-Wan hastily moved to bow before Lorian; this motion prompted Lorian to chuckle slightly and extend a hand toward the Jedi. “Oh, no, please,” Lorian said with a smile. “That’s not necessary. You must be General Kenobi.” 

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan replied, grasping Lorian’s proffered hand and giving it a shake. “And this”—he gestured to indicate Anakin—”is my pilot and aide, Anakin Skywalker.” 

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Lorian said, shaking Anakin’s hand in kind. After a moment’s pause, the Viscount clasped his hands together and nodded slightly. “Dooku sends his regards; we’ll be joining him later, of course. In the meantime, I’ve been tasked with giving you a brief tour of our capital city.” He turned to face the direction he had initially come from, motioning for the three Jedi to follow. 

“I do apologize for the cloud cover,” Lorian continued as he led the group. “The forecasters in our weather center tell me it should clear up in about ninety seconds.” 

Anakin raised an eyebrow. “You can predict the weather that accurately?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s a necessity here on Serenno—the storms are fierce, and they patrol the skies constantly. It would consume too much energy to always keep the city moving, so knowing when storms are coming so we can avoid them is vital to our survival. Of course, it’s often most economical to just wait out the large cloud clusters like this one, even if it does tarnish the view.”

The gentle  _ whoosh  _ of an automatic door graced Anakin’s ears, accompanied by a rush of pressurized air. The group ducked into the doorway which Lorian had earlier emerged from—though he tried his best to hide it, Anakin found himself somewhat disappointed with his first view inside a Serenno building. The plain white tunnel of the landing pad access hallway seemed more akin to something one might find in a medical facility—stark, bright, and sterile. The evenly spaced overhead lighting was turned up a touch too high, prompting Anakin to squint as they strolled down the corridor

Relief washed over the young Jedi as they reached the end of the corridor and emerged onto a balcony—an outdoor one, judging by the gentle breeze and the return of the humid cloud cover. Lorian approached the railing and leaned forward onto it, staring longingly into the expanse of clouds.

“There’s supposed to be a skyline here,” he chuckled, gesturing at the wall of fog before them. “If our weather experts are as good as I said they were, it should show itself in three . . . two . . . one.”

On ‘one,’ the white barrier of fog seemed to effortlessly slide away, carrying the dense air with it. As the cloud curtain drew back, it revealed a seemingly endless array of hovering buildings. Anakin gasped in awe. The hospital-like hallway had indeed been a fluke, not remotely representative of the city’s aesthetic.  _ Now this,  _ he thought as his eyes widened,  _ is more like it.  _

The sky of Serenno served as a brilliant blue backdrop for the capital city, which was a  web-like network of floating spires. Glass and a silvery, brushed metal appeared to be the predominant materials on display throughout the city—though some buildings also featured a smattering of light-colored wood. The hovering platforms seemed the size of a city block; from each platform, clusters of towers stretched to the heavens. Some ended in sharp points, still others were collections of prismatic rectangles, their glassy surfaces glistening in the light of the descending sun. 

An elegantly woven cluster of cables draped across the gap between each city platform—power and comm lines, Anakin assumed, though he noticed that some cable clusters also carried small cable cars between platforms. Other platforms were connected with ornate bridges—landspeeders and pedestrians alike traversed the spans of metal and transparisteel. Along one horizon of Serenno, the Aurora system’s distant sun hung low, brushing the clouds in that direction with wisps of purple and orange. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Lorian said, breaking the minutes-long silence that had formed amongst the group. “Welcome to Stratum Apolune, capital of Serenno.” 

“It’s incredible,” Obi-Wan replied. “An impressive feat of engineering, to be sure.”

“How many more cities like this are there?” Anakin asked.

“There are a few others across the planet, though none quite so large,” Lorian said. “Early in Serenno’s history, there were dozens of scattered floating settlements.” Shoving away from the balcony railing, Lorian began to pace as he spoke. “The sheer amount of resources it took to keep them all afloat was simply unsustainable. The Countess at the time worked to unify the settlements into just a handful of cities. Much safer that way. The Count’s Palace—the platform originally selected to serve as Serenno’s seat of government— is where we’ll be ending our tour, though there are a few points of interest to see first. If you’ll follow me . . .”

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan gingerly peered over the edge of the cable car that carried their tour group across the expanse between two Serenno city platforms. The elegant metal carriage hung from the woven length of cable spanning the gap, and it glided so gently Obi-Wan could have sworn they weren’t even moving. 

“I must say, Madame Jinn, it’s great to see you in such good condition. When Dooku told me of your injury, I was horrified.” 

Obi-Wan glanced back slightly, peering over his shoulder to the pair of humans across the cable car. Lorian, Viscount of Serenno, was standing beside Qui-Gon and speaking in hushed tones to her—though not hushed enough, as Obi-Wan had just heard every word. 

He pulled his focus away from their conversation as Qui-Gon began to respond—he didn’t wish to eavesdrop, after all—and returned his attention to the city platform growing ever larger as their cable car approached it. 

The platform lacked the towering buildings of the ones surrounding it, but its base level seemed to hover several meters above the platform they’d been on before. It only took Obi-Wan a moment to realize why. In the center of the platform was a domed building; instruments and lenses poked out of the structure, pointing toward the stars. “An observatory,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself. 

“Precisely,” Lorian replied with a grin—evidently he’d overheard the Jedi master’s musings. “We keep this platform hovering higher than the rest to get an unobstructed view of space. Serenno may be the only habitable moon of Aurora, but it is not the only fascinating one.” 

As the cable car made contact with the observatory platform, Lorian disembarked, motioning for the three Jedi to do the same. Anakin, seemingly the most eager of the group, did so first, taking several extra steps toward the domed structure even as Qui-Gon had yet to exit the cable car. 

“Ah, Mister Skywalker,” Lorian said, motioning for the pilot to rejoin the group. “I’m afraid the observatory itself is currently closed for repairs.” Anakin kept a straight face as he returned to Obi-Wan’s side, though the Jedi master could feel the disappointment radiating from him. Lorian continued, speaking as though he sensed Anakin’s disappointment as well: “Worry not, though. There’s a reason I brought you up here.” With another of his proud grins, Lorian gestured skyward.

Obi-Wan’s gaze followed Lorian’s pointing—he tilted his head back, looking straight up above. It seemed a fairly ordinary evening sky. Hues of blue crossed with wisps of white cloud, tinged orange on one side from the sunset, hung over them. Then, in an instant, the sky changed. 

It moved in a rippling motion, from a point directly above the observatory dome. Blackness expanded outward, spreading as if an inkblot had been spilled on the heavens. Day became night; the planet Aurora’s dazzling rings sparkled like diamonds, distant pinpoints of light twinkled across the onyx canvas. Against the backdrop of Aurora, other bodies were visible—more of the gas giants moons, Obi-Wan realized. One set of moons, a pair of brilliant green globes orbiting so closely together they looked as though they could collide at any moment, suddenly brightened in a flare of energy. 

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Lorian offered, his voice dripping with pride. “The observatory platform can filter out light pollution on any spectrum. Even at high noon, we can make it appear as night. Very useful for observing the stars.”

Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan noticed, did not have her gaze turned skyward. Rather, she leaned on her cane, staring wistfully at the skyline surrounding them, which now appeared to be that of a bustling nighttime city. Towers stretched upward, each window glowing brightly. The exhaust trails of gliding speeders seemed to linger in the air, slightly luminescent. 

Lorian began to pace as he had back on the landing platform balcony, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “The city looks a bit different during actual nighttime, of course,” he offered, motioning in the direction Qui-Gon was staring. “Some of our entertainment venues have special signage they only light up when it’s actually dark out, and you should see the palace at night . . .” he trailed off, glancing back upward at the sky. “But this”—he pointed up—”is pretty accurate.”

Obi-Wan watched as the twin green moons fell out of view and another sphere crossed in front of Aurora. This one, Obi-Wan thought, seemed to be almost perfectly smooth on the surface. A particulate substance wisped away from the natural satellite in gently curling tendrils, dissipating as it floated farther from the moon—whatever the substance was, its fine grains seemed to sparkle. 

“‘The Crystal Ball,’ I used to call it,” Qui-Gon explained, as if she was sensing the curiosity of her fellow Jedi. She broke her staring contest with the skyline and turned to face Obi-Wan. “The surface is mostly glass. It was a sandy desert moon until a solar flare flash-fried the whole thing. Lucky for Serenno they were on the far side of Aurora when it happened, or they’d have been toast too.”

“Ah, you  _ do  _ remember my history lessons about Serenno, Madame Jinn!” Lorian exclaimed. “I was worried that perhaps you’d forgotten over the years.” 

“I was worried  _ you’d  _ forget,” Qui-Gon fired back, smirking as she jabbed her cane at Lorian. “After all, you only studied up on Serenno so you’d have something to talk to Dooku about. Once you got him, there was no reason to retain the knowledge.”

Lorian’s eyes widened in apparent mock-offense. “Don’t insult my love of history,” he said, chuckling slightly. “Besides, a moon getting fried by a solar flare is an interesting story, one certainly worth remembering.”

Anakin frowned. “Hang on. These solar flares happen often?”

“No. Don’t worry,” Qui-Gon replied with a laugh. “If the Serennans were at regular risk of getting cooked by the sun, I think they’d have chosen to live somewhere else.” 

Obi-Wan stared down at his feet—his mind wandered back to his time in the afternoon heat of Tatooine’s suns, and to Owen and Beru.  _ I’m not so sure that’s true,  _ he thought to himself as a slight smile crossed his face. 

“Well, this stargazing has been lovely,” Lorian said, breaking the growing silence. “We really should continue, though. Shield your eyes, the sudden brightness can be a bit much for some people.” 

As Obi-Wan squinted and raised a hand to cover his face, the curtain of darkness seemed to fall away. Starting directly above, at the same point it had originated from, the blackness slid downward along the sky, replaced in turn by the blue-orange hue of early evening. 

His eyes adjusted to the light, Obi-Wan looked up at Lorian and nodded slightly. “Thank you, Viscount. The view was lovely.” 

“Of course, General. I’m always happy to show the wonders of the Aurora system to visitors.” He paused, then shot a cursory glance at his wrist chronometer. “Oh, Dooku should be ready to greet us shortly. Shall we head to the palace?”

Obi-Wan nodded, extending an arm in the direction of the cable car they had arrived in. “Lead the way, Viscount.” With a flourish, Lorian spun around and strolled back toward the cable car, the three Jedi trailing behind.

 

* * *

  
  


The ride to the palace platform was more convoluted than Qui-Gon remembered it being. They’d transferred from a cable car to an airspeeder and back to another cable car, briefly cutting through an open-air market square she wished she could have spent more time in.  _ Ah well,  _ she had thought to herself as they marched right through the crowds of people and the elegant booths of jewelry and local cuisine without slowing down.  _ We’ll be here a while, there’s always tomorrow. _

The cable cars granting access to the palace complex were a fair bit more regal than the others they had ridden in since arriving in the city—plush leather seating contrasted with the sleek metal chairs of Stratum Apolune’s other public transportation, and the windows of the palace cable cars were not see-through, but rather adorned with intricate stained glass depictions of the sights of the Aurora system. Whether this was for the sake of security or showmanship, Qui-Gon wasn’t certain, and Lorian hadn’t offered an explanation—he was instead in a state Qui-Gon wasn’t used to seeing him in: contemplative silence.

She’d noticed a change in the retired professor’s demeanor ever since the tour had wound down—everyone was more nervous, really, but she hadn’t expected it from Lorian. She was worried he was keeping something to himself, perhaps his thoughts on the upcoming summit, but she fought hard to keep that worry concealed. It wasn’t something she wanted to pass on to Obi-Wan or Anakin through the Force, even inadvertently. Their own anxious feelings were apparent enough to her senses, and it wouldn’t do well to make them even more worried. 

As their cable car came to a halt, briefly swaying in place as the brakes kicked in, Lorian seemed to return to his role of cheerful host. He stood, clasped his hands together, and gestured toward the door of the cable car as it slid aside automatically. Qui-Gon was the first to stand up, leaning heavily into her cane as she ducked out of the car and into the evening sunlight.

It had been well over a decade since she’d been anywhere near the palace on Serenno, but was every bit as impressive—and beautiful—as she remembered. Most buildings in the city of Stratum Apolune took the form of standard skyscrapers—rectangular or cylindrical structures jutting into the sky. The palace was unique in this regard: a narrow A-frame structure stretched along the platform, its glistening transparisteel body clothed in a skeleton of brushed metal spires. The angular building stood as the centerpiece of a larger complex of glass buildings—offices and residences, if Qui-Gon recalled correctly. 

The palace platform certainly had a smaller footprint than the city’s other hovering collections of buildings, though what it lacked in breadth it made up for in verticality. Peering over the edge, Qui-Gon could see the structure stretching downward into the clouds—white cubes of a stone-like material jutted off the side in uneven intervals, as though the palace platform had been “built up” over several generations, culminating in the imposing triangular silhouette of the modern Count’s Palace.

Lorian, evidently noticing Qui-Gon’s glance into the abyss, launched into another tour speech. “You’ll notice there’s a unique dimension to the palace platform,” he began, sweeping one hand out and in a downward motion. “When a hovering platform begins to show its age, it is usually removed from service, as it were. Its population is relocated to a new set of buildings, and the materials are recycled for future construction projects. The palace platform is an exception to this rule. Every few generations, improvements and additions to the platform are merely built on top of what’s already there. Local stonework is then built around the outside, preserving and covering the old level. This gives the overall structure its unique but uniform layered appearance.”

“So someday you’ll build right on top of that palace?” Anakin asked, pointing to the stark and angular A-frame.

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. It’s up to each individual Count or Countess. Dooku’s predecessor chose not to build on top of the palace, but rather to renovate it.” He paused, staring longingly at the building in the center of the square. “I’m quite fond of it myself, I’d hate to see anything built over the top of it.”

“It is impressive,” Obi-Wan added. Qui-Gon glanced over at her former partner, who was stroking his beard as he stared at the palace. 

“Shall we head inside, then?” Lorian asked. A trio of nodding heads prompted the Viscount to spin on a heel and stride toward the royal residence, hands clasped behind his back.

The space immediately around the building was not remotely what Qui-Gon had been expecting. She recalled her last visit to Serenno, back when she was still a student of Dooku’s. The palace grounds had been strangely silent, the few people roving around showing a near-religious level of respect for the place. Today, it was a buzz of activity. Droids were hauling furniture and boxes in and out of side doors, the whir of their servomotors audible even from a distance. A small group of humans dressed in waitstaff uniforms stood huddled in a circle, arguing over the contents of a clipboard held in one of their hands. A Twi’lek dressed nicer than the waitstaff stood on top of a crate, directing a group of Wookiees who were unloading a cargo truck. 

“I’m terribly sorry about the mess,” Lorian muttered sheepishly. “Preparations for the summit, you see. I’d hoped we’d have this all out of the way by the time you arrived, but—”

“It’s alright, Viscount,” Obi-Wan interrupted—Qui-Gon could feel the soothing waves the general projected through the Force. “I promise, we don’t mind. The grounds are lovely.” 

Lorian smiled, seemingly satisfied with Obi-Wan’s words—and Qui-Gon had to admit, the grounds were indeed lovely. Beneath the bustle of activity, a perfectly-manicured lawn was still visible. Beds of flowers and other plants lined the stairs up to the palace, and ornate fountains sent jets of water arcing over a reflecting pool off to one side of the square. 

As they reached the stairs that ascended to the palace front doors, Qui-Gon felt her spine preemptively tingle. The steps before her weren’t particularly steep or great in number, but climbing stairs at all with a cane was still a tiring affair. She called on the Force for strength, and felt a surge of power trickle its way down her back. She rose to nearly her full height and took a step without the cane’s assistance, smiling at the absence of pain as her foot hit the stonework. Then, remembering she was in public, she placed the cane on the step beside her anyway—it wouldn’t do for anyone to think she could just temporarily will away her injury, after all. 

She kept up the facade as they climbed the staircase and entered the palace front doors, then loosened her connection with the Force, allowing all of the delayed pain to hit her at once. Her back tightened and she bit down on her tongue, fighting to keep her composure in front of the others. Tilting her head back, she swept her gaze across the main hall of the palace in an attempt to distract herself from the discomfort. 

The inner structure of the Count’s palace was as intricate as the exterior. The skeletal collection of outer spires cut through to the ceiling, like the ribcage of a great behemoth. Sleek white tile lined the floor—more of that locally-mined stonework, she assumed. Colorful splashes of light danced across the polished flooring; stained glass windows were spaced evenly along each wall, filtering the outside light into shafts of deep red and purple and blue. 

Life-size statues stood in various regal poses between each pair of stained glass windows—depictions of past Counts of Serenno, she knew. It was tradition to sculpt a figure of a Count upon their death, though there was only enough room in the main hall for the sculptures of the past six rulers. 

At the rear of the palace sat a pair of thrones—one, perfectly centered, carved of wood with ornate etchings set into its high back. The other throne was far more modest, set off to the right hand of the primary throne. Both seats were bathed in golden light—the unfiltered sunset streamed through the grand sheet of glass that comprised the main hall’s rear wall. 

Still fighting off the pain surging in her lower spine, Qui-Gon stared at the floor and reached out through the Force to touch those around her. The eager energy of Anakin Skywalker brought a boost of confidence. The always-steady calm of Obi-Wan Kenobi was a reminder that everything would be alright. 

Then, a third presence entered. One she had not felt in a very long time. She raised her head and stared again at the thrones at the rear of the room. Standing in front of the pair of seats, silhouetted by the sunset, was a perfectly postured figure draped in a lengthy cape. 

“Esteemed guests,” Lorian began, in a tone and cadence that sounded far more rehearsed than any of his tour speeches. His voice reverberated through the grand hall of the palace as he continued. “You now stand in the presence of Dooku, Count of Serenno.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES:** _ **ETERNITY _-CLASS COMMAND TRANSPORT SHUTTLE_**

The  _ Eternity- _ class shuttle is used within the Republic Defense Force for the transport of key personnel or supplies. The shuttle’s standardized exterior features folding foils on each side of the body—in flight, they are deployed at a downward 45-degree angle, and they fold upward for landing to minimize their footprint in the often at-capacity hangars of Republic Star Destroyers. 

The interior of the shuttle is not standardized, but rather an adaptable and modular open plan. Each division in the Defense Force is assigned a single  _ Eternity- _ class shuttle, and it is up to the division’s commanding officer to decide how to use it. Some outfit the interior space for comfort and use it as a personal transport. Others turn the main space into a cargo bay to facilitate mid-battle supply drops. The most aggressive generals use their allotted  _ Eternity- _ class as a troop transport for specialized squads, sending it screaming into the heat of battle carrying elite soldiers.  **_  
_ **

** The  Eternity- class shuttle’s shield array allows it to survive several directly turbolaser hits, though it is lightly armored to allow for rapid movement. Should the shuttle’s shields go down, the forward cockpit can be detached from the ship and flown as an emergency escape craft—though this small vehicle is not large enough to accommodate more than a half dozen people, and the main body of the craft cannot be controlled in its absence.   **


	18. Getting Acquainted

“Let me get this straight,” Bail said to his head of security, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “You meet a Jedi while gallivanting through their secret headquarters—”

“That’s pretty rich coming from you,” Padmé scoffed.

“—you don’t know anything about him besides his name and the fact that he  _ doesn’t _ like Obi-Wan—”

“Or anyone.”

“—and you decide it’s a  _ great _ idea to bring him along on the secret mission to the Chancellor’s home planet. That about the size of it?”

Rolling her eyes, Padmé countered, “Look. Palpatine currently has no less than  _ three _ Jedi doing his bidding on Serenno, where a  _ fourth _ ex-Jedi is waiting for them. You don’t think having  _ one _ on our side could come in handy?” When Bail failed to provide an immediate response, she continued steamrolling him. “You know good and well you would have wanted Obi-Wan along if he’d been available, and failing that I’m sure you would have figured out a way to bring Qui-Gon along.”

From the pilot’s chair, Raymus broke in, “Wait, Qui-Gon  _ Jinn _ ? The one who’s going to—”

“Shut up, Antilles,” Bail snapped, holding up his hand and staring Padmé down. “In case you don’t remember, you  _ just _ told me he doesn’t like Obi-Wan  _ or _ Qui-Gon. You don’t think he has a problem with us being so close with them?”

“He’s still a Jedi, Bail, for gods’ sakes. It’s not Senate politics over there, they have each other’s backs.” She kept her eyes locked on his and did not blink. “Besides, he may find them annoying, but he  _ hates _ Palpatine. When I told him Anakin and the Chancellor were friendly he almost snapped.”

“See, that word, right there,  _ snapped _ .”

“It’s a  _ figure of speech _ , Bail—”

“Walk with me,” he said, seizing her by the arm with a strength that surprised himself and hauling her out of the cockpit. “Antilles, keep going as usual.”

When they were far enough down the hallway, Bail released his head of security’s arm and looked her in the eye once more. “I’m not going to pretend to be the mastermind here, but I’m your boss. We’re friends, you’re unprofessional, that’s part of your charm. But you  _ don’t _ spring this kind of thing on me, Padmé. Understood?”

For a few long moments, she simply held his gaze. Then, finally, she nodded.

Nodding back, Bail felt himself deflating. “Apologies. I—I overreacted.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she replied, rubbing at her arm. “I don’t think I’ve seen you that angry—well, ever. You okay?”

He chose his words carefully. “I think I might not have made it clear enough to you how much Palpatine loathes the concept of the Jedi. Views them as traitors, a cancer on the Republic. Us digging into his past is risky enough, even if it is perfectly legal. Throw a Jedi into the mix and . . .” With a long exhalation, he shook his head. “I just wish you’d consulted me first.”

After a few moments’ consideration, Padmé said, “Well, he’s here now, like it or not. And while I may be impulsive, I’m not an idiot.”

“So you have a plan in mind, then.”

“To keep Windu a secret? Well.” She started down the hall, turned her head to call back to him. “We  _ did _ bring along a second ship.”

 

* * *

 

“You’ll want to check the port engine next time you get a chance, Miss Padmé!” Liz said with a wave, eyes flashing blue, as her owner walked into the rec room. “The readings were bit iffy when I docked with the  _ Sundered Heart _ .”

“Not gonna have much time for repairs once we land, Liz,” Padmé replied, “but I’ll have Anakin look at it once he gets back.” Ambling closer, she squinted at the chessboard between the droid and her partner. “How goes the game?”

“Oh, I’m dominating,” replied Ellis Korven in a low, throaty voice, moving her pawn into place with taloned fingers. Her face, coated in iridescent green scales, reflected some of the blue glow of Liz’s eyes back outward. “Your droid is too nice to play for real when she’s in a good mood, and when she’s in a bad mood she’s too easy to upset.”

Instantly, Liz’s eyes snapped crimson. “You’re not upsetting me, you stupid excuse for a strategist.”

Silently, Ellis rolled her own green eyes in Padmé’s direction. “Whatever you say, Liz,” she sighed, before taking another one of the droid’s pieces.

Behind Padmé, footsteps sounded; she turned to see a tall, bald man stroll in behind her. “Ah, Windu. How’s it going?”

“About the same as it was five minutes ago,” he replied, sounding bored. “And this room is?”

“Rec room,” Padmé said. “Take a good look now—this is probably the most downtime we’re gonna get.”

It wasn’t much—the  _ Sundered Heart _ , while considerably bigger than the  _ Spice Dancer _ docked to it, still wasn’t a capital ship by any means. Liz and Ellis were playing at one of two gametables—holographic surfaces that could project a variety of boards or simply be used as receptacles for cards. A couple of treadmills and weights benches occupied most of the room’s other end; between them and the games tables were a couch, a few chairs, and a viewscreen. “There’s also a fridge,” Padmé pointed out, gesturing at the little cube stuffed into one corner of the room, “but I don’t think it’s been restocked in a while. Anyway.” She strode toward the two chess players and gestured for Windu to follow her. “Ellis, Liz, this is Mace Windu. Jedi acquaintance.” When the Jedi raised an eyebrow, Padmé rolled her eyes. “It’s Bail’s ship, no one cares.”

“If I live the rest of my life without meeting another damn  _ Jedi _ , it’ll be too soon,” Liz growled. Abruptly, her crimson eyes flared brighter and then faded down to sapphire. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Mister Windu!” she chirped brightly, before turning back to the board. “Oh dear, I think you’ve got me, Ellis.”

Windu raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know,” was the only answer Padmé gave him. “That’s Liz. LZ-A24, if she’s not in the mood to be called by her ‘slave name.’ And this”—she turned his attention to the reptilian figure across the table—“is Ellis Korven. Resident computer wiz.”

Rising, Ellis seized Windu’s hand in her claws; if the Jedi objected, he didn’t give any outward sign. “Always happy to meet a friend of General Kenobi’s,” she replied in her alto tone.

Windu looked to be gripping her hand hard enough to hurt. “Don’t know what Amidala here told you,” he said, shooting a look at Padmé, “but ‘friend’ isn’t exactly the word.”

Emerald eyes widening, Ellis opened her mouth; as if she were being puppeteered, a suddenly clipped, prim Core accent sprang forth, one that Padmé was intensely familiar with. “Oh dear, you mean you’re immune to Kenobi the Negotiator’s charms? Surely you can’t be serious.”

Windu practically leapt backward, something Padmé found intensely gratifying. Looking sharply at her, he asked, “Did—did Kenobi’s voice just—”

Finally, Padmé let loose the laughter she’d been holding in for the past several seconds. “Oh, I must’ve forgot to mention—Ellis is a Clawdite.”

“Ah,” Windu replied, his stony expression slamming back into place. “A changeling.”

“ _ First _ of all,” Ellis replied, transitioning back to her normal voice, “it’s  _ shapeshifter _ , thanks very much. Second . . . kinda. I can manipulate my vocal cords but not much else; never learned how to fully shapeshift.”

“So if we end up having to crank call someone, she’ll come in handy,” Padmé finished.

Windu looked Ellis up and down for a few moments, then spoke. “So what kind of job are you planning on pulling, anyway?”

“Strictly on the level,” said a fifth voice as it entered the rec room. Marsalis Kazan, a human male in his late thirties, gave Padmé a curt nod before turning to Windu. “Senator Organa’s instructions. Anything happening is to be aboveboard.”

Padmé watched the Jedi size up the new arrival—shorter than Windu by half a foot but with a similarly bald head save for a few wisps around his ears, and built of solid muscle gone slightly to seed. The oldest member of Bail’s security team, one who’d previously worked for the royal family.

“Why,” the Jedi asked, speaking to Kazan but looking at her, “would an entirely aboveboard mission require a hacker—”

“IT wiz,” Ellis replied, “you’ve gotta lay off with the labels.”

“— _ and _ a Jedi Knight?” Windu continued. “I’ve lived in Hutt space, Amidala, a little extralegal activity isn’t going to scare me off. So what’s going on?”

“Wait, Hutt space?” Padmé asked, surprise filling her voice. If Windu had been stationed there prior to the Temple, it was no wonder he seemed to be angry at everything. It was a bit of a miracle he’d returned to the Core at all, actually.

“Nar Shaddaa enclave,” he replied. “Long time ago. As I was saying,” he continued as she opened her mouth to follow up, “what are we going to be doing?”

Kazan looked the other human male up and down as if he were evaluating a suspicious-looking used speeder. “Research,” he replied evenly. “Looking into the Chancellor’s past record, associations, what have you, seeing if anything damning turns up. Using that to thwart his agenda, especially on the annexation of outlying systems.”

Absently running the fingers of his left hand along the hilt of his lightsaber—it hung at his belt, unconcealed—Windu turned to Kazan and narrowed his eyes slightly. “You mean to tell me you risked bringing a Jedi along for a  _ fact-finding _ mission?”

“We didn’t,” Kazan replied, fixing Padmé with a stern expression. “She did.”

Her own face hardening, Padmé leaned around the Jedi to look her colleague in the eyes. “I’m in charge of security here, Kazan, and I asked him along. If you’ve got a problem with that, take it up with Bail.”

“I’m sure  _ Senator _ Organa trusts your judgment,” he replied.

_ This is going to be a lovely trip,  _ she thought to herself, growling at a level she hoped was inaudible. Kazan wasn’t a bad man, but he was a thoroughly uptight one, and he couldn’t seem to get over the fact that she’d been made head of security despite his seniority.  _ At least it’s Ellis I’m sharing a bunk with, not him. _

“C’mon, it won’t be  _ that _ boring,” Ellis said to Windu from the chess table, over the sound of Liz swearing—another piece had been taken. “Just partner with me, party tricks are a specialty of mine.” She paused for a second; the next time she spoke, it was in Kazan’s slightly gravelly, unamused tone. “Not that I’m not strictly aboveboard at all times, of course.”

Ignoring her, Windu stared at Padmé, his eyes growing stonier by the second. “Let’s talk, alone,” he said, and then swept past her and out of the rec room—headed aft, by the look of things.

“Geez, what’s  _ his _ problem?” Liz asked.

“General Kenobi and Skywalker aren’t nearly that antisocial,” Ellis said, leaning back in her chair and watching the hallway as if waiting for Windu to stick his head back in. “I mean, Hutt space, though—I’d be pretty grouchy too if I’d been working there.”

Shaking her head, Padmé started for the door herself. “I’ll talk to him, just keep kicking Liz’s ass.”

Through her peripheral vision, she watched Kazan’s eyes follow her out of the room and down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Windu waited in the rear of the ship, outside the engine room. “You brought me here under false pretenses,” he rumbled as Padmé rounded a corner and caught sight of him. “I’m not supposed to be leaving the Temple without direct authorization—I’m sticking my neck out for you. When exactly were you planning on telling me we’re going to be spending this trip in the middle of a damn  _ library _ ?”

Ordinarily, she’d get defensive, start firing shots back at him without trying to address his concerns. But in the past two years, Padmé had gotten just a bit better at admitting when she’d been caught dead to rights, at least as far as arguments went. “Okay,” she said, raising her hands placatingly, “this isn’t exactly an undercover mission. Yet.” Drawing closer to him, she asked, “What exactly is it about Palpatine that scares you so much?”

“Don’t change the sub—”

“I’m not changing the subject,” she said quickly, watching the frustration building in his eyes. “It’s why I asked you along. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the bastard too—obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. But when I told you about him and Anakin, you freaked out on me. You think Palpatine is dangerous. Why?”

He was silent for a few moments, as if weighing the merit of this counterpoint. Then: “Have you ever heard of shatterpoint?”

She shook her head. “Some kind of Force thing?”

Windu snorted. “You could say that. Not a common one, I’ll tell you that much. If the Archives are still accurate, I’m one of five living Jedi who has it.”

_ Huh.  _ Padmé knew each Jedi had specialties, of course—Obi-Wan was better at mind tricks than Anakin, Anakin used the Force to pilot in ways that his master couldn’t imagine. But this was the first she’d heard of a Force power being sealed off to most users entirely. “What does it do?”

He studied her for a second, his eyes moving up and down. “You care much about that necklace you’re wearing?”

Instinctively, her hand went to the wood snippet. “Yeah, actually.”

Shrugging, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a commlink. “All right, then—probably best if the Temple can’t contact me anyway.” Balancing the comm on his opened right palm, he stared at it.

For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a sharp  _ crack _ , as if a miniature bomb had exploded, and pieces of plastic and metal were clattering down to the  _ Sundered Heart _ ’s deck.

Padmé belatedly flinched backward and reached up to shield her eyes from shrapnel; then, embarrassed, she lowered her hands. “Ah, shatterpoint. Should’ve been obvious, I suppose. Not seeing how it relates to Palpatine, though.”

Shaking flecks of commlink off his hand, Windu shook his head. “There’s two levels to shatterpoint. What you just saw is the literal one—I can see weaknesses in objects, exploit them. The second level is more fuzzy.” Looking her in the eyes, he said, “I can see which  _ people _ are shatterpoints.”

Not quite getting it, she looked at him expectantly.

Sighing, he continued. “I’ll do you the courtesy of not demonstrating on you, since you got me out of the Temple. But if I wanted to, I could look into you right now and see what your weakest point is. Who matters to you, the things you love most. Which one, if I were to take it away, would break you. But it’s more than that, even.” He spoke slowly, not to condescend but to make sure she understood. “I can see what makes  _ you _ a shatterpoint. What shatters if you’re crushed.”

It was starting to dawn on her, but she wanted to hear it from him. “And Palpatine . . .”

“Is a shatterpoint for  _ everything _ ,” he finished.

Her eyebrows knitting closer together, Padmé stepped closer. “Explain.”

The Jedi shook his head. “Standard school of thought is that shatterpoints have to be protected, or down things fall. That what I’m sensing must mean that if Palpatine goes, the Jedi go, the Republic goes.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who has a lot of good feeling about standard schools of thought.”

His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes glinted in the prelude to a smirk. “You’re lucky I think the same thing about you, Amidala, or I wouldn’t have come.” When she didn’t reply, he hesitated for a moment, then said: “My little theory is that sometimes a shatterpoint is the opposite. If you  _ don’t _ break it, you risk things collapsing in on themselves.”

“And Palpatine is one of those.”

“Well,” Windu said, “you can think what you want. But he’s the biggest shatterpoint I’ve ever felt. He’s been presiding over a war while the Confederacy grows stronger and stronger. And now he’s going to start seizing border worlds if they don’t give us the keys. Doesn’t strike me as someone we want to stick around.”

Padmé rolled all this around in her mind for a few moments, considering the implications. She was less ashamed than she should have been that her primary reaction was  _ Well thank the gods  _ someone _ knows I’m not crazy. _

“Which is why,” Windu continued, those stone doors behind his eyes starting to close again, “I don’t see how this ‘on the level’ investigation is doing anything but wasting my time. And yours.”

Looking behind herself to make sure Kazan or someone else hadn’t followed after her, Padmé sighed. “Look, between you and me, I know Bail, and I sure as hell know me. This is starting off on the level. There’s no guarantee it’s gonna stay that way.”

Windu raised an eyebrow. “Bit of an unorthodox head of security, you are.”

“ _ And _ ,” Padmé continued, “even if all this ends up being is sneaky opposition research . . . you know what you know. I’m not a Jedi, but I know that Palpatine makes me gods-damned nervous. And if we’re gonna be operating as a skeleton crew of people loyal to Bail, I’d rather have a Jedi at our backs in case things go south.”

Once again, the Jedi rubbed his fingers along the hilt of his lightsaber, considering. Padmé wondered if she’d gone far enough in convincing him, but held her tongue firmly.  _ Don’t look desperate, and  _ definitely _ don’t apologize. That’ll just lose you ground. _

Finally, Windu spoke. “You’re the first person I’ve met who seems anything close to scared enough of Palpatine. And like I said, you got me out of the Temple. So I’ll stick around. But I can’t promise I won’t do some digging of my own if this ends up being a waste of time.”

It was better than nothing. “Fine,” she replied, “I wouldn’t expect you to.” A thought occurred to her, and she caught herself starting to smirk. “I’ll warn you, bunking with Liz might not exactly be preferable to the Temple.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Doing  _ what _ with the droid?”

Her smirk widened. “Sorry, buddy, you two and the  _ Spice Dancer _ are breaking off once we hit orbit. Can’t have a crazy droid and a scary-looking guy with a shaved head join the senator’s landing party—it’d look weird. We’ll be rendezvousing once we hit the planet.”

The Jedi nodded once—chin down, then up, like an automaton. “Joy.”

“Eh, she’s not so bad once you get to know her.” Out of habit, Padmé threw another glance behind herself to make sure no one was coming their way. “Hey, so what were you doing in Hutt space anyway?”

When she turned around, she saw that she wasn’t going to get an answer to that one anytime soon. In the half-second she’d taken to look down the hall, Windu had disappeared.

Rolling her eyes, she started back for the rec room.  _ Jedi. So damned  _ dramatic _. _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CLAWDITE** _

Clawdites are humanoid reptilians native to the Mid Rim world of Zolan. They are most well known for their ability to transform the shape and texture of their skin to alter their appearance. 

Many misconceptions persist about the species’ unique ability. Not every Clawdite is capable of altering their physical appearance—the skill must be trained and developed over the course of several years. Even after much training, it is incredibly painful for a Clawdite to transform their appearance. Furthermore, it is extremely uncommon for Clawdites to perfectly match the appearance of another individual—this, too, takes years of study alongside the individual they wish to mimic. It is much more common for a Clawdite to create completely new appearances for themselves if they are capable of shapeshifting at all. 

Despite the relative rarity of the shapeshifting talent, Clawdites face discrimination and stereotyping surrounding their ability. They are often seen as untrustworthy or deceitful, and are derogatorily referred to as “changelings.” Many Clawdites choose never to leave their homeworld for fear of not finding employment in the greater Republic. Those who do leave usually seek out work that benefits from their shapeshifting ability, finding employment as assassins, body doubles, or in the criminal underworld. 


	19. Count Dooku

When Anakin reached out to feel Dooku’s presence, he touched cold steel. Utter self-possession—it wasn’t that the man  _ had _ no emotion, he was simply in complete control. Trying to get a grip on his aura in the Force was like trying to keep hold of a perfectly smooth sphere of ice.

_ Matches the exterior, anyway, _ he thought, sizing up the Count. He was tall, and carried himself with confidence, though he didn’t bother to hide his age—his face was lined and his beard was white, shining with sunlight filtered through the throne room’s windows. In his sharp eyes was—nothing, though again this signified not an absence of feeling but simply inscrutability.

The two bodyguards who flanked him were similarly inscrutable, in their cases because of the visors across their faces. Their armor was a pale blue similar to that of Serenno’s sky, standing in sharp contrast to the bone white of the blasters they held slanted across their chests. Dooku walked as if he didn’t know they stood behind him—freely, briskly, his cape swirling behind him, boots tapping gently against the white tile.

Bending forward into an elegant bow, Dooku kept his eyes on the three of them. Anakin watched him, then caught Obi-Wan returning the bow in his peripheral vision and hastily did the same.

Qui-Gon, on the other hand, simply strode forward, her gloved hand extended. “I’m afraid bending at the waist isn’t quite so easy for me these days,” she said, her tone no more formal than it ever was. “Permit me?”

Dooku gripped her hand and held it there. Finally, Anakin saw something like warmth stir behind his eyes. “I seem to recall,” the Count said dryly, “that your lack of manners was present even before your injury, but I’ve learned not to hold it against you.”

Chuckling, Qui-Gon stepped back, leaning on her cane. “It’s wonderful to see you, sir.”

Palpatine would have chided the use of the honorific; the ruler of Serenno did not. Turning his eyes back to the other two, he spoke again. “General Kenobi, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Your exploits, of course, are legendary even as far out as here.”

Anakin wondered if there wasn’t a bit of a wink in the remark, but it was probably just him reading into things. In any event, Obi-Wan kept himself in check and simply replied, “The pleasure is all mine, Count.”

Dooku’s eyes flicked over to Anakin, who felt a little exposed. The old man’s gaze was sharp as a hawk’s, as if he were probing into his guest, plumbing his insides. “And this is?” he asked.

“Anakin Skywalker,” he replied, taking a step forward, then questioning whether he should have done so and stepping back. “I’m Obi-Wan’s aide and pilot.”

One of the Count’s eyebrows rose the barest fraction of an inch. “The Defense Force does not stand on ceremony, I see.”

Reddening, Anakin frantically tried to think of a reply. Before he could, Obi-Wan chuckled and said, “Believe me, if Anakin ever called me ‘General Kenobi’ I don’t think I could stomach the strangeness.”

Sending a dart of gratefulness to his master through the Force, Anakin took another step back.  _ Just shut up and let the others do the talking. For the rest of the trip. _

“Lorian, I presume,” the Count said, “has already lectured you on the trappings and traditions of our world on your way here?” This time, the note of amusement in his tone was definite.

Stepping forward to stand alongside his husband, Lorian chuckled. “I had to do something to keep them interested. And it’s only so often I’m able to get on a soapbox.” Addressing the Jedi, he said, “Not that you’re not aware, but this is the first delegation we’ve received from the Republic in . . . well, my lifetime, at least.”

“It was a pleasure, Viscount,” Qui-Gon said. “And rest assured, every bit of it has been cataloged for my report back to Interplanetary Outreach.”

“Speaking of keeping you interested,” Dooku broke in. “We’ve taken the liberty of preparing rooms for all of you within the palace complex—it will be no offense if you prefer to stay aboard your ship, of course.”

“On the contrary,” Obi-Wan said, “it’s our honor to be granted permission to stay here.”  _ Honor _ may have been laying it on a little thick, but Anakin knew it was definitely his master’s pleasure, and his own as well. A few weeks ago, a mission that involved private bedrooms for them both would have been unthinkable. “If the rooms are a fraction as grand as this it will be too much.”

“Excellent,” replied the Count, inclining his head. “The people of Serenno prefer to take things slowly—for that reason, we do not plan on beginning the official summit until tomorrow. Afterward, there will be a banquet held in our worthy guests’ honor. For now, consider yourselves free to simply rest and enjoy your evening.”

“You may want to keep an eye on your watches,” Lorian broke in. “As I’m sure you noticed in your briefing, Serenno is tidally locked. A galactic standard day lasts about a month here. You’ve landed during ‘sunset week’”—he gestured upward at the swirls of blue and violet visible through the skylight—“so even when it gets late, the light levels will still be around what you’re used to for early dusk.”

Qui-Gon shuddered theatrically. “Good thing we didn’t show up at ‘noon.’ I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if it was bright out for days in a row.”

“Eh,” Anakin spoke up, glad to have the conversation turn to something he was experienced in, “you get used to it after a while. When Padmé and I were stuck on Had Abbadon we sorta fell into a sleep cycle based on habit instead of where the sun was. I mean, we were in a cave, but if you just pulled enough window shades down here I imagine it’d be about the same.”

Dooku raised an eyebrow. “Had Abbadon?” Interest laced his voice. Turning to Obi-Wan, he asked, “Is this where you two first met?”

“Oh, without Anakin I wouldn’t have made it off the planet,” replied his master.

Once again fixing the younger Jedi with that hawk’s gaze, Dooku nodded. “Very interesting. When we’re not discussing membership, perhaps you can tell me a few war stories, young Skywalker.”

“Ah, yeah, I’d like that.” Not the most articulate he could have been, but he was too pleased with himself for apparently catching the Count’s attention to care much about that.

Nodding once at this affirmation, Dooku turned on his heel and began striding away, his bodyguards trailing behind him, steps echoing through the chamber. The bodyguards’ armor blended into the chapel’s colors, but the silhouette of Dooku’s cape was striking black against the brightness.

The three Jedi looked at each other, but for some reason it felt like speaking before Dooku had left the room would be to break some sort of spell. Finally, once the Count had vanished from sight, Qui-Gon snorted. “Well, he hasn’t changed much.”

Lorian chuckled. “He’s pleased to see you.”

“What does displeased look like?” Anakin asked—Obi-Wan shot him a look, but he didn’t retract the question. 

“Trust me,” the Viscount replied, “you’ll know it if you see it.” Clapping his hands together, he beckoned them to follow him. “Anyway, you’ll all get to know the Count much better tomorrow once the proceedings have officially started. For now, let’s find you your rooms.”

As Lorian and Qui-Gon drew ahead, chattering together about some memory from university, Anakin motioned to Obi-Wan to stay back. After the general had fallen into step alongside his apprentice, Anakin murmured, “So, maybe it’s just me, but I couldn’t sense much off him.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “He’s not one who’s given to much emotion. Whenever I ran into him at the Temple it was a bit spooky, to be perfectly honest.” Raising his eyebrows appreciatively, he clapped a hand to Anakin’s shoulder and said, “You did seem to capture his interest with that bit about sleep cycles, though. I do hope you’ll actually take him up on the offer of conversation.”

Grinning, Anakin replied, “What, no cautions about me jeopardizing our whole operation by running my mouth?”

“I’m serious!” Though Lorian and Qui-Gon were drawing farther away, Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Anakin’s shoulder and came to a halt. “Anakin, I’m afraid that sometimes I’ve been a little overzealous in my criticisms of you. I always thought it’s what came with the territory of being a teacher, but . . .” Pausing and lowering his voice, which was starting to echo through the throne room, he finished, “I am extraordinarily proud of you. And while I wouldn’t have sent you to negotiate with Dooku on your own, you bring your own strengths to the conversation that I could never hope to. You’re of value here, and I hope you know that.”

The younger Jedi could feel the genuine fervor behind this sentiment pouring off his master, and cleared his throat awkwardly. He never doubted his friendship with Obi-Wan—it was as constant as his love for Padmé at this stage—but the older Jedi was not often someone who gave unabashed praise. “Ahh, thanks,” he finally managed, trying to pass along through the Force a gratitude he couldn’t manage through words. “You’re . . . erm, you’re of value too, I guess.”

Bursting out into laughter, Obi-Wan took a step backward. “Perhaps I should reconsider urging you  _ quite _ so strongly to try and carry a conversation with our host.”

“Aaaaah, there we go, back to normal.”

As the two of them hastily made up for lost time, doing their best to feel where Qui-Gon was up ahead, Anakin couldn’t help but feel pretty good about things. A few years ago, he’d been conning people out of drinks in dive bars. Just now, he’d said a few words to a head of state and  _ not _ sounded like an utter ass. And done well enough for Obi-Wan to tell him so.

_ We’re gonna do this,  _ he thought to himself, remembering his promise to Palpatine.  _ Just like we always do. _

 

* * *

 

Dropping down onto Qui-Gon’s bed with a groan, Obi-Wan pried his boots off. “No offense to Viscount Lorian, but my feet only tend to hurt this much after I’ve been running from clones.”

Seated near the head of the mattress, Qui-Gon laughed. “The man was overenthusiastic even as a professor, I’m surprised the tour was as short as it was.” She whacked at his shin with her cane, laughing harder when he yelped and scooted away. “Besides, I’m using this and you don’t see  _ me _ complaining.”

Looking up through the room’s ceiling, Obi-Wan rubbed at his leg. “The view is undeniable, at least.”

The rooms that had been provided to them were on the top level of the palace, the ceiling’s inch of transparisteel the only thing between them and sky. As Lorian had said, the colors above them had not changed from earlier in the day, although the patterns had; violet clouds curled through the blue in wisps and feathers, carried by in constellations of moisture. Occasionally, avians would flutter by, riding thermals. Everything else about the bedrooms was solid—white walls and floors, soft but very firm beds that floated above the ground. Qui-Gon’s was at the ideal height for her to use her cane; Obi-Wan, used to the meditation mat on his shuttle, had lowered the one in his room all the way to the floor.

“You don’t suppose they intend for us to actually peruse the reading material, do you?” he asked, nodding at the fully stocked bookshelf that sat in one corner of the room. His own had had a similar decoration, all the books made out of paper. He  _ did _ enjoy the activity when he got the time, but  _ time _ wasn’t something he’d had much of in the last . . . forever, really.

“Speak for yourself, Kenobi,” his former partner replied. “I’m going to try to smuggle some home, if I can.”

“Surely the Temple can’t be  _ that _ boring.”

“Try living there all the time.” Tapping at him again with her cane, this time far more gently, she said, “At any rate, I can probably get a decent head start on reading while your apprentice spends another hour in the shower.”

“Try living on board the  _ Coelacanth _ all the time,” he shot back, feeling his own version of Anakin’s crooked grin forming. “I’m going to spend my own eternity in there after he finishes and we’ve had our meeting.”

Qui-Gon, rather than responding, let herself fall backward onto the bed, sighed, and closed her eyes. Obi-Wan simply watched her for a while, taking her in. While he would never have said it to her face, the strain she’d been under, physically if not mentally, since her near-death was evident. There were lines where before her skin had been perfectly smooth; flecks of gray ran through her ebony hair. It had happened to him too, he thought, running his fingers through the wisps of gray in his own beard; Bail as well, and Cody. Even Padmé had aged more than she should have in the time he’d known her.

The one exception was Anakin. He’d not grown a day older since they’d first met. It was more than simply his youth—being a Jedi was  _ good _ for him. Where before he’d been eaten up by fear, now he had a purpose. And Obi-Wan had meant what he said earlier today—he was proud of his apprentice beyond words.

“Speaking of Skywalker,” Qui-Gon said, startling him out of his introspection, “you haven’t done a half-bad job, you know that?” Maintaining her repose, she let her head loll to the side so she could look at his face. “Trouble notwithstanding.” There was a teasing gleam in her eye. “I thought  _ we _ were bad when we were partners, but if half the misadventures I hear about you two getting into are true, it must be some kind of record.”

Shaking his head the general rose from the mattress. “I’m glad he’s come as far as he has, but none of it’s to do with me, I promise you. I  _ still _ don’t know how to be a teacher, not really.”

“I doubt Yoda himself could have done it better.”

Snorting, he said, “Oh, stop mocking me for once,” then noticed that his friend’s customary smirk wasn’t present. She appeared dead serious.

“I mean it,” she said. “Sitting in a swamp for months on end? The kid would have gone crazy.” Pausing, she propped herself up on her elbows, wincing a bit at the strain on her back. “I’m glad it was you. I’m sure he is too. You should be proud.”

_ And I am,  _ he started to say back, but he stopped and thought. Proud of Anakin? Absolutely, he was. But taking pride in himself as a teacher had never occurred to him. It would have seemed vain, self-centered, ridiculous.  _ But _ , he thought to himself,  _ if  _ she’s _ the one saying so . . . _

Before this line of thought could continue, Anakin burst into the room, scrubbing at his hair with a towel. “Miss anything important?” he asked, throwing himself into a sitting position on the mattress.

“Oh, nothing really,” Qui-Gon said, pulling herself back upright. “Now that you’re here, we can get the party started. And by party, of course, I mean boring strategy talk.”

Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, Obi-Wan began to pace the length of the room. “Yes, that. I must admit, I was hoping out audience with Dooku would be a bit longer, that we’d get a chance to feel things out. As it is, I’ve no idea where he really stands on us.”

“Which is, of course, exactly what he wanted,” replied Qui-Gon. “Like Lorian said, though, he’s not being hostile. And he did seem glad to see me, if nothing else.”

“We did the right thing not bringing the  _ Coelacanth  _ into atmosphere, anyway. I doubt he would have taken well to a battleship floating right outside the city limits.”

“Would’ve obstructed our view anyway,” Anakin put in, flicking a glance at the ceiling.

“As I’m the one who’s technically in charge here,” Obi-Wan continued, looking at Qui-Gon, “I’m going to have to do a fair share of the talking for appearances’ sake, but you should be alongside me as much as you can. We have our work cut out for us trying to avoid looking like bullies when the Chancellor chose to send us in with military units—having Interplanetary Outreach making our case goes a long way toward dispelling that.”

“Isn’t the military a huge part of all this in the first place, though?” asked his apprentice, frowning. “They’re only reaching out to us because they want protection from the CIS.”

“There’s protection and there’s ‘protection,’” replied the general. “I’m sure you have to have encountered the latter on Junkfort. If we look like extortionists, the game is up.”

“So we’re agreed,” Qui-Gon said before this investigation into the finer points of blackmail could continue. “We’re lovers, not fighters, et cetera.” Hauling herself to her feet, she began to wander the floor as well, the third leg that was her cane tapping gently against it. “We’re also going to want to be sure to get Dooku alone at some point—or alone-plus-Lorian, obviously he knows about the whole Jedi thing. We need to make sure that we appeal to him from that perspective as well.”

“If he left the Order,” countered Anakin, “why would that matter to him?”

“Because he knows more than most the the Order and the Republic are intricately connected,” Obi-Wan said. He shot Qui-Gon a questioning glance; when she nodded her permission, he continued this line of thought. “And he also knows that Palpatine sent three Jedi to speak to him, which only emphasizes that connection. We’ll have to reassure him that the Jedi are involved for the better.”

Something occurred to him then—whether a whisper of the Force or his own invention it was difficult to say. “In  _ fact _ ,” he said, looking pointedly at Anakin, “the fact that he wants to speak with you gives us an ideal window.”

“I mean, he wants to talk with me about caves.”

Rolling his eyes, Obi-Wan stepped forward and looked his apprentice in the eye. “You grew up away from the Republic, and then joined not only the military but the Jedi. You’re in a unique position to explain to him why coming to us from the outside is a  _ good _ thing, on both counts.”

“Huh,” the other man said, expression growing thoughtful. “Hadn’t pictured it that way.”

“We don’t want to make you our trump card,” Qui-Gon put in, “but you’ve got to admit it’ll come in handy. Especially if the main negotiations go a way we don’t want.”

Nodding, Anakin grinned faintly. “Man, Padmé is gonna be mad at me if she finds out I’m the one who talked a non-member world into joining.”

“I’m sure she’d prefer it this way to the other way that was discussed.”

He felt his apprentice’s goodwill begin to collapse at this needling of Palpatine; before it could continue, he raised his hands. “At any rate, I think what we all need right now is some decent sleep. After a shower, in my case.” Nodding at both the other Jedi, he said, “May the Force be with you both. Until the morning.”

“Sleep tight,” Qui-Gon said cheerily. “I’ll be reading.”

As Obi-Wan said his goodbyes to Anakin in the hallway and watched the other man head for his own room, he rolled Qui-Gon’s words over in his head.  _ I doubt Yoda himself could have done it better,  _ she said as the younger Jedi opened his door and ducked inside.

_ Ridiculous,  _ he scoffed to himself.  _ Don’t go getting delusions of grandeur from one of Qui-Gon’s cracks.  _ And he wouldn’t, he knew—his self-awareness, if not perfect, was enough for that.

Still, though, he thought as he entered his own room and headed for the shower. It was nice to have someone think so.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: COUNT OF SERENNO** _

__

The moon of Serenno is ruled by a monarch known as the Count. The title is hereditary, passing through the ages from family member to family member; the Count, once appointed, rules for life.

While the people of Serenno are able to make their voices heard on political issues, ultimate veto power on any decision rests with the Count. This unusual degree of power is accompanied by a burden of ultimate responsibility; a good Count will make for a prosperous period for Serenno, while bad ones have been known to set the moon’s economy back for decades.

The current Count of Serenno is known only as Dooku. A former academic, Dooku gave up his career when the former Count, his uncle Darius, died of old age, passing the title to him. Accompanying him in his departure from the academy was his partner and fellow professor Lorian, who serves him as Viscount.


	20. Royal City

Padmé spun aimlessly in the copilot’s chair of the  _ Sundered Heart,  _ silently lamenting that the seat rotated noiselessly—as annoying as the squeaky components of her own ship were, they also brought with them a certain charm. 

“Nervous?” came a voice from beside her. Raymus Antilles kept his gaze affixed outside the cockpit viewport, albeit unnecessarily—the cobalt swirl of hyperspace was the only thing visible beyond the pane of transparisteel. 

“About what?” Padmé asked. 

Raymus shrugged. “Dunno. First time on a new planet, we’re trying to spy on the freaking Chancellor, you let a Jedi you met yesterday fly off with your ship . . .”

“Okay, fine,” she interrupted as the pilot trailed off. “I’m nervous about that one.” Twenty minutes prior, Padmé had watched as Mace Windu, accompanied by Liz, decoupled the  _ Spice Dancer  _ from the  _ Sundered Heart  _ and sent it leaping into hyperspace. The pair were supposed to land separately from Senator Organa’s entourage in an effort to avoid suspicion, though it had meant sending what amounted to a stranger flying off with her most prized possession. 

“They’re totally going to kill each other if she’s in the wrong mood,” Raymus teased, breaking his forward-facing stare to shoot a grin at Padmé. She smiled back, but also shook her head slightly. 

_ He’s not wrong,  _ she thought. 

An alternating pair of notes chimed from the control panel of the _Sundered Heart_ , prompting Padmé to spin her chair back to its forward position. “We’re here.” 

Raymus placed one hand on the control yoke in front of him, using the other to gesture at a row of switches on Padmé’s side of the cockpit. “Go ahead and cut in the sublight engines.” 

She toggled the row of switches in unison, causing the tunnel outside to collapse into countless points of light. Suspended in the center of it all was a world of green and blue coated by wisps of cloud cover. Massive continents sat cradled between oceans; the crescent of the planet cloaked in darkness twinkled as city lights shone from its surface. 

“There it is. The Jewel of the Mid Rim,” Raymus muttered, nudging the throttle lever forward slightly as he spoke. 

“We’re not here to sightsee,” replied Padmé. “Besides, this is the view from space. Who’s to say it’s as pretty on the surface?”

“It is.” Raymus shot another sideways glance at Padmé, accompanied by a sly smile. “But fine, go ahead and suck all the fun out of everything.” 

Choosing to ignore the comment, Padmé simply leaned back in her chair and stared at the world of Naboo as it grew larger in the viewport. When the planet had filled nearly the entire window, a hauntingly familiar shape appeared from Naboo’s dark side. The shape, orbiting around the planet, seemed to slide effortlessly through space as it positioned itself between the planet and the approaching  _ Sundered Heart.  _

It was the unmistakable dagger of a  _ Venator _ -class Star Destroyer. 

“What’s the Defense Force doing here?” Padmé asked, shooting forward in her chair. 

“There was no mention of military presence in the system when I filed our flight plan,” Raymus replied, squinting and leaning closer to the viewport as the Star Destroyer grew larger. “I don’t see any division markings. No paint at all. That thing must be fresh off the line at Kuat.”

“I don’t like this,” Padmé whispered. By now, the Venator was taking up more of their viewport than Naboo was; its cold durasteel angles drowned out the natural beauty of the world below. As the  _ Sundered Heart  _ slid past the Star Destroyer, Padmé couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just plain  _ wrong _ . Uneasiness welled up within her stomach. Her heart rate steadily increased, and she realized she was gripping the armrest of her chair so hard her knuckles had turned white. 

Then, in an instant, the feeling passed. The Star Destroyer behind them, the viewport once again filled with the colors of Naboo. Padmé exhaled slowly, releasing a breath she hadn’t meant to hold in. As the  _ Sundered Heart  _ dipped into the atmosphere and the edges of its deflector shield glowed orange, Padmé leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. 

When she opened them again, the view outside had transformed. They had descended fully into the atmosphere, and the view was stunning. Rolling hills rippled across the surface of Naboo. Tufts of green—trees, she realized—gave the terrain a strangely inviting texture. Lakes dotted the landscape, woven together by a network of winding rivers. And yet, the natural beauty of it all somehow paled in comparison to their destination, which sat squarely in the center of the viewport. 

The dome-capped stonework buildings of Theed sat perched upon a lush plateau which rose above the rest of the terrain. Though streets, bridges, canals, and stone archways covered the plateau, so too did an abundance of flora. At the far end of the raised formation sat what must have been Theed Palace—the towers of the structure rose far too high for it to be anything else. Waterfalls poured down the sheer vertical walls of the plateau—some into lakes, others into obviously artificial reservoirs. 

Sitting at the base of one side of this great plateau was what looked to be a spaceport. Landing pads of all sizes were lined up along the ground; hangars and control towers had been constructed directly into the plateau wall. 

“Quite something, isn’t it?” 

This new voice, speaking from the doorway to the  _ Sundered Heart’ _ s cockpit, slightly startled Padmé. “Bail!” she said. “Didn’t expect to see you up here before we landed.”

“Well, I didn’t want to miss out on the view,” he replied with a smile as he lowered himself into one of the passenger chairs. “Besides, we’ve got some planning to do. I think I can handle getting us checked in to the hotel, if you’d like to head to the library right away and get started on research.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” Padmé said, shooting Bail a snappy nod; he rolled his eyes at the gesture, and she smirked. “I told Liz and Windu to meet us at the hotel, so you might see them there. I know we arrived separately, but it’s not worth pretending you’ve never met them. It’d be tough to keep that charade up all week.” 

“Duly noted,” Bail said. “I get why you had them arrive in a separate ship, but the less lying we have to do, the better.” 

 

* * *

 

“Welcome to the Royal Theed Hotel, Senator Organa. What brings you to our lovely city?”

Bail hesitated for a moment as he stood at the hotel front desk. The question was innocent enough—the young woman was merely making conversation, and she was a hotel receptionist, not a customs officer. Not to mention she almost certainly knew the answer—the University of Theed had made the hotel reservations on Bail’s behalf. 

“Here for a university event,” came his eventual reply. “We’ll do some sightseeing beforehand, of course.” 

“Of course,” the receptionist echoed with a smile. “The booking indicates you’d like some space to be able to work in preparation for the fundraising gala. You’ll be staying in our Chancellor’s Suite, which features a large central sitting room, multiple bedrooms for your staff, and a pair of offices. Will that suit you?” 

Bail nodded. “That sounds perfect, thank you.” 

The young woman smiled and nodded. “We’ll have someone take your things up to the room. In the meantime, please enjoy our lobby’s complimentary refreshments. The Chancellor’s Suite will be ready shortly . . . Senator.” Though faint, there was the slightest sense of emphasis on this final word.

_ Damn it,  _ he thought.  _ His whole home planet had better not be as petty as he is. _

As Bail turned on a heel and strode away from the reception counter, he locked eyes with his pilot. Raymus Antilles had made himself comfortable in one of the hotel lobby’s several chairs, and was sipping on a mug of caf as he leaned back. 

“Free hotel caf that doesn’t suck, sir,” Raymus said, gesturing slightly with the drink as he spoke. “That’s how you know you’re in a decent hotel.” 

Bail sat down beside him, clasping his hands together as he eyed his surroundings. “Decent” was a bit of an understatement, Bail thought. The centerpiece of the lobby was a grand staircase seemingly carved from the same stone as the rest of Theed’s most prominent architecture. It flared both to the left and right at its peak, providing access to the hotel’s second floors. A chandelier of green crystal was suspended above it, though it seemed more for show than anything else, as it did not cast any light of its own. 

Great columns lined the lobby’s perimeter; the furniture of the room was as ornate as any Bail might have expected to find in Theed Palace itself. Beneath it all, a perfectly polished tiled floor reflected an image of the room back onto itself. 

“Tell me, Raymus,” Bail began, speaking in a hushed tone, “am I reading too much into things, or was the receptionist trying to insult me with the way she called me ‘Senator?’”

Raymus shrugged as he took a sip of his beverage. “Who knows, sir. Maybe she’s one of those folks that still blames you for the war. That Star Destroyer in orbit probably isn’t helping things.”

“The what?” 

Eyes growing wide, Raymus sunk slightly into his chair. “Padmé didn’t tell you? There’s a brand new Venator up in orbit. No identifying markers or anything.” 

“That’s not the Defense Force.” 

The words left Bail’s mouth in an exhaled whisper as the realization of what the ship did represent dawned on him. Raymus shot the senator a quizzical look, and Bail continued with an explanation. “It’s Palpatine’s new peacekeeping corps.” 

“It’s what?” 

“Some worry that outlying Republic worlds could never really defend themselves against a direct Confederate attack,” Bail said, leaning forward in his seat and adjusting slightly to face Raymus. “Naboo personifies that worry nicely, I’m afraid. A security force made up of minimally trained volunteers would be useless against the clones, especially when most of them don’t even carry lethal weapons.

“Palpatine brokered a deal with the Queen.” It had technically been the whole Defense Committee, Bail knew, but there was no point in sugarcoating things for Raymus—the way Mon Mothma told it, Palpatine all but issued an executive order during a committee meeting to make this happen. “The planet’s security volunteers were to join the Defense Force in various support roles. In return, Naboo would get protection from a new branch of the RDF. They’ll do everything from orbital defense to basic police work. If the program goes well, it might even get expanded to other planets.”

Raymus scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned. “Why?”

“We’re apparently ‘safer with a unified army,’ according to Palpatine.” 

“We  _ have  _ a unified army, sir. The Republic Defense Force is supposed to protect all member worlds. Naboo shouldn’t have to give up their security force in exchange for a Star Destroyer.” 

Bail let out a defeated sigh and slumped in his chair. “I’m not calling the shots anymore, Antilles. And while I’m not sure I love this new peacekeeping corps thing, you have to admit it makes a certain amount of sense.”

Halfway through a sip of caf, Raymus sputtered as he nearly coughed out the hot beverage. “How?”

“It takes planetary loyalty out of the equation. Think about it: if Alderaan got attacked, Typhoon Division would drop whatever they were doing and come to our rescue. Naboo doesn’t have that luxury.”

“So these new soldiers are loyal to what, then? The Chancellor?” Raymus raised an eyebrow as he gingerly placed his mug on the table in front of them. “Palpatine’s new peacekeeping corps just showed up on Naboo”—the pilot glanced to one side of him, then the other, and spoke in a hushed tone—“and we’re here to dig up dirt on the man. This . . . could get interesting.” 

  
  


* * *

 

A gentle breeze drifted off the nearby canal as Padmé and her Clawdite companion strolled through the streets of Theed. The early evening light of the system’s sun streamed through the trees lining the water; the massive stone arch at the center of the square sat bathed in a warm orange glow. 

Directly ahead of the duo stood a great cylindrical building—a building Padmé thought none too different than the ones surrounding it. Pillars and stonework of a gentle tan color rose into the air, capped by a dome of copper that had been oxidized by time and the elements. 

Beside her, Ellis Korven scoffed slightly. “The Royal Library.” 

“Huh?” came Padmé’s almost automatic reply.

The Clawdite’s eyes narrowed as she turned to face Padmé. “It’s just funny, don’t you think? Everything is ‘Royal’ around here. The Royal City of Theed, The Royal Theed Hotel, The Royal Library—”

“We  _ are  _ in the palace district, Ellis,” Padmé interrupted. 

As they ascended the shallow but lengthy staircase to the library, Ellis shook her head, waving her clawed hands about as she spoke. “Sure, but it’s not even a real monarchy. The Queen is elected. She’s got term limits. She can be overruled by a unanimous vote of her inner circle or whatever it’s called. I mean, why even have a queen at that point?” 

The pair reached the top of the stairs, and Padmé gave a slight shrug. “Tradition, I guess? I don’t know, I haven’t done much reading on Naboo politics.” 

Ellis flashed a smile at Padmé, baring a row of slightly translucent teeth. “Well, that was pretty stupid, considering we came here to learn about a Naboo politician.” 

Cocking her head slightly to one side as if to say  _ You’ve got a point, _ Padmé silently moved toward the large archway that was the entrance to the Royal Library. The threshold to the building was not protected by a door, but rather appeared to be open to the outside. As she stepped underneath the arch, Padmé realized this was an illusion—she could feel herself passing through an invisible barrier, the transparent shield rippling across her skin and resisting slightly as she pushed through it. Her off-shoulder cape fluttered slightly, as though the shield were tugging on it; her hair did the same. 

Once she was through the shield, the very air around her seemed to change. It was somehow drier—climate control, she realized as she spotted shelves of physical books lining several walls of the library. The outside sound had disappeared as well, as if the barrier she’d walked through were working to dampen it. 

“Impressive,” Ellis whispered. Padmé jumped slightly—she hadn’t heard the Clawdite enter the library or come to a stop beside her. “Certainly lives up to the name.” 

_ Indeed it does,  _ Padmé thought. She craned her neck upward, eyeing the ceiling of the multistory rotunda she now stood within. Several floors of the building were visible to her, their open balconies facing in to the rotunda. Bookshelves lined every wall; others stood free in satisfyingly uniform rows. A low whistle escaped Padmé’s mouth, though it came out quieter than she expected it would. Confused, she glanced at Ellis and raised an eyebrow. 

“Dampening fields,” Ellis explained in a hushed tone. “Can’t talk above a whisper in here. C’mon, the archive terminals are this way.” She gestured with one hand, then began to stroll away from Padmé.

“How do you know that?” Padmé asked, her voice far more muted than she felt it should be. “Have you been here before?”  

The Clawdite chuckled. “No, dumbass.” A scaly finger rose, indicating a placard mounted on the wall. “I just read the signs.” 

“Right.” With a grin, she followed her companion toward the rear of the room. 

Once they had reached the computer terminal, Ellis lowered herself into the chair and began poking at the interface. Padmé stood beside her, placing a hand on the back of Ellis’ chair and leaning in closer to the terminal screen—though it wasn’t long before the Clawdite waved a hand at her, motioning for her to back up.

“Keep an eye out, would you?” she asked, her volume still suppressed to the level of a whisper. “Not sure these Naboo would love the idea of a changeling poking around one of their archive terminals.” 

Silently nodding, Padmé whirled around so her back faced her partner. She turned back almost immediately when she heard Ellis whisper a string of curses under her breath. 

“Find something already?” 

“Not exactly,” Ellis said, pushing her chair away from the archive terminal and motioning to the screen. “Look at this.” 

Padmé leaned in to look—upon seeing the warning flashing on the screen, she rolled her eyes. Ellis had run a search for financial records from Palpatine’s time as governor; in place of any actual information, there was merely a gently pulsing message: “Data Unavailable. Please See Archivist for Assistance.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Padmé muttered. “This might take longer than we thought.” 

  
  


* * *

 

With a great  _ thud _ , the hefty box of documents slammed onto the hotel suite’s central table. 

“Oh my,” Bail said, stroking his chin with one hand as he tilted a glass of whiskey in his other. “What’s all this?” 

“ _ This,”  _ Padmé grunted as she heaved another box onto the table, “is the first round of documents we’re digging through. As it turns out”—another grunt escaped her mouth as she threw a third box onto the table—”the government hasn’t digitized any of the records from Palpatine’s governorship. We spent all damn evening making duplicates of the physical copies”—a fourth grunt accompanied a fourth box—”so buckle up. We’ve got our work cut out for us.” 

“I’d been hoping to come back with a collection of digital files,” Ellis said as she collapsed into one of the chairs surrounding the central table. “We could’ve just plugged them into Liz and let her go to town on analyzing them.” At this, the droid—who was leaning against the far wall of the suite’s main room—wordlessly glared at Ellis, her eyes snapping from blue to crimson.

“Instead,” Ellis continued, “it’s gonna be all hands on deck. If we can’t find anything in these boxes, we’ll go back and pull records from the job he had before this one. Rinse and repeat until we get some actual dirt on the guy.” 

The sound of shuffling feet filled the hotel suite as everyone moved around the table and lowered themselves into a chair. Everyone, Padmé noticed, except for one person. Mace Windu, who had been—for lack of a better word—brooding on the living room’s couch. The Jedi rose to his feet and made for the door to the hotel’s hallway. As Ellis lifted the lid from the first box of documents, Padmé heard their suite door slam. In an instant, she was on her feet and out the door. 

“Windu!” she hissed at the form stalking away from her down the hall. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The Jedi froze, his shaved head glinting in the dim light of the hotel hallway. Slowly he turned to face her, his brown eyes narrow with apparent anger and his mouth locked into a disapproving look of disgust.

“This is bullshit, Amidala.” 

She took another handful of steps toward him before coming to a stop—their faces were close now, only inches apart. She said nothing, instead waiting for Windu to fill the silence. 

“We’re not going to bring down the Chancellor by digging through boxes of documents. Time is not on our side here.” 

“So you decide to waste it by running off before we even get started?” Padmé was surprised at the words even as they left her mouth—Windu looked pissed, and Padmé wasn’t sure how she’d had the guts to talk back to a pissed-off man with a lightsaber.

By the look on his face, Windu wasn’t sure either. He shook his head. “I’m going for a walk. I need to get some air.”

Nodding slowly, Padmé took a deliberate step backwards. “Of course. Come find me once you’re back.” 

“Why?”

The word was harsh, almost biting, but Padmé kept her own tone gentle. 

“If the Force shows you anything, I’d like to know.” 

Windu scoffed, spun around on one heel, and stormed off.

 

* * *

 

_ If the Force shows you anything, I’d like to know. _

Mace replayed Amidala’s words back in his own head. Who did this woman think she was? Assuming he was some pious prick like Kenobi, always going off to meditate. Acting like his connection to the Force was nothing more than another tool in her arsenal, equipment for her mission to bring down Palpatine.  

_ But is it?  _

He shook his head, willing away the small voice. Willing away the memory of what Master Roha had said to him as he’d left Nar Shaddaa: _ “Shatterpoint is a gift that’s supposed to bring wisdom.”  _

He’d dismissed the thought at the time—after all, what did she know? It was a gift, yes. A gift Master Roha didn’t possess. It was his gift, and it was up to him to decide how to use it.

_ So screw Amidala and her meditation requests.  _

He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp night air of Theed fill his lungs. Mace had said he’d come outside to get some air, he might as well keep his word. 

As he exhaled slowly, Mace increased the pace of his walk. He could feel the weight of his lightsaber hilt as it hung from the left side of his belt, shrouded from prying eyes by the hooded cloak he wore. Perhaps, he heard another voice say, he would have done well to leave the weapon back in the hotel room.  _ Always looking for trouble, you are,  _ the words of his former teacher echoed in his head. He willed those words away too. 

Trouble, Mace thought, was where they’d find answers. Not boxes of files. So he let the Force guide him as he slinked off the streets and into a shadow soaked alley untouched by the moonlight that blanketed the rest of Theed.

It wasn’t long before he found trouble. 

A trio of shadowy figures stood huddled in a circle. Mace had seen the sight enough back in Hutt Space for him to instantly recognize it for what it was. One figure held out his hand. Another glanced down at the contents and nodded slightly, then fished in his pockets for a moment. As the man removed hand from pocket, Mace raised his own hand to his mouth and let out an intentionally noisy cough. 

The trio’s heads shot upward, glancing down the alley in Mace’s direction. The man who had been fishing in his pockets instantly turned and bolted in the other direction, down the alley and out of sight. The other two men—business partners, Mace thought—simply stood and stared. 

“Is he one of those new cops?” one whispered. 

“Nah,” the other hissed back. “He’s not wearing the armor.”

“Gentlemen,” Mace said through clenched teeth. “May I ask what’s going on here?” 

“You can ask,” one said. “I’m not sure I feel like answerin’.”

“Why’d our friend run off?” Mace asked, taking another step toward the shadowy figures—they remained rooted in place. 

“I think you scared him away.” 

“Perhaps I can . . .” Mace hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Make up for the lost business.” He took another step forward. “What’re you selling?” 

“How do I know you’re not a narc?” 

Mace reached up and grasped the edges of his hood, pulling them back and allowing the shroud to fall away. “I’m an offworlder. A tourist from the Outer Rim.” He reached down to his right hip, peeling away his cloak to reveal the tunic and belt beneath it. “And I’m not armed. What’re you selling?” 

The dealer gave a slow, satisfied nod. His mouth curled into a grin, revealing a set of strangely perfect teeth. “Aerosol hexacodone. Pharma strength product in a nasal inhaler.” He reached out a closed fist and slowly opened his fingers; a silver cylinder glinted in what little light the alley had. 

“Good,” Mace hissed. “Now stop.” 

The fingers of his left hand twitched, and the dealer flew sideways—he slammed into the alley wall, a great  _ crack  _ sounding as he did so. To an outside observer, it would have merely sounded like bones breaking. It was, of course, but Mace knew exactly which ones—he could see the spiderweb of fractures expanding on every vertebrae that had slammed into the duracrete surface. A muffled gurgle escaped the dealer’s mouth as he dropped the metal cylinder to the ground.  

The clatter of the cylinder was drowned out by a grunt from the dealer’s partner—he’d attempted to bolt, and Mace had responded by snapping his ankle with nothing more than a glance. As the man fell face first into the pavement, Mace made a fist. He’d intended to break the man’s neck himself, but the shattering strands visible through the Force indicated the fall had done it for him. 

Mace exhaled slowly. He felt the life of the two drug dealers fade away as their auras in the Force slowly disappeared.  _ Two more hexheads gone from the galaxy,  _ he thought.  _ Good riddance.  _

The Jedi took several deliberate paces down the alley, over to the body of the first drug dealer. The sound of the metal cylinder rocking back and forth on the stone pavement ceased as Mace reached down and snatched it up. He ran his thumb along its surface—it was cool to the touch, and beads of condensation had formed on it. 

Mace Windu gripped the hex inhaler tightly before shoving it into a pocket. Breathing deeply, he spun on a heel and slipped out of the alley, his hasty strides carrying him back toward the Royal Theed Hotel.  

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: AUDITORY DAMPENING FIELD ARRAY** _

In environments where near-silence is important, a carefully attuned series of deflector fields can be used to dampen—or even entirely cancel out—all sound in the area. Even more advanced than standard active noise cancellation, an auditory dampening field array is incredibly precise, albeit incredibly expensive. Voices can be reduced to a whisper, or eliminated entirely. The effect can be applied to a specific area of a room (for example, a conference table in an open plan office) or blanketed across a large space. Auditory dampening fields see use all across the galaxy—from libraries to laboratories, lecture halls to theaters, secure government offices to art galleries.

Attempts have been made to “invert” the technology and weaponize it by creating a field that amplifies unpleasant sounds within a given space. Proposed applications include riot control and nonlethal incapacitation. One defense contractor has even used the technology to develop a handheld “scream gun” which focuses painful beams of sound at targets. This is much to the dismay of the technology’s original inventor: an orchestra conductor and musician who only wished to practice without disturbing his neighbors. 


	21. Saber Rattling

Beneath the perpetual early dusk, Serenno teemed with life.

Obi-Wan extended his senses and took them all in—people in the thousands wandering the platforms or riding between them, or standing still and looking up into the sky. On Coruscant, the sheer number of citizens could occasionally feel like an assault on his perceptions, choking them out. Here, though, the populace was thinner, bustling but manageable. Feeling them gave him a sense of renewal.

He wondered, glancing toward Dooku, if the Count felt the same standing on the balcony, looking down at his subjects. Qui-Gon’s old master was quiet this morning; he’d greeted Obi-Wan courteously when they met again in the throne room, but had lapsed into silence shortly thereafter. Now, he simply gazed from the height of his palace, almost motionless, cape flapping in the vague breeze. His bodyguards were several yards removed, standing near the doorway that led out here; for all intents and purposes, Obi-Wan and Dooku were alone.

Clearing his throat, the general asked, “Do you come up here often?”

Slowly, Dooku nodded. “Sometimes the open air is the best place to think. Don’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” He felt a pang as another trail of air wafted across his face. “I wish I could experience it more often.”

“Space travel, I suppose, does not leave one with many opportunities for it.” At this last, he broke his eyes from below and turned to look at Obi-Wan. “I wasn’t aware you’d taken command of a Defense Force division until the Temple contacted me to share the news of Qui-Gon. I must say, learning she’d almost died saving the life of a Republic general who I’d passed in the halls on occasion was rather a lot of news to deliver to an aging exile.”

Smiling, Obi-Wan said, “Ah, so you did remember me. I couldn’t be sure.” Looking back down at the crowds, he continued, “I do hope you don’t really think it’s an exile. I’m sure you’d be welcomed back—”

“A surety that I’m afraid I don’t share, General,” the Count replied. It wasn’t bitter or angry—delivered in the same calm, firm tone in which Dooku said most everything—but Obi-Wan regretted the misstep anyway, wincing inwardly. “And in any case, coming back is not something I anticipate happening, regardless of how this summit is to proceed.”

“Of course you had your reasons,” the general said.

Dooku sounded faintly amused. “Reasons that, perhaps, you’re trying to divine?” Before Obi-Wan could summon a convincing denial, the Count waved a hand dismissively. “I take no offense, General Kenobi—but that is not why you are here.”

Sighing quietly, he looked upward into the blue sky. “Speaking of which, I imagine they’ll be arriving any minute now.”

Indeed they would. Obi-Wan flicked his own eyes upward, stomach twinging faintly.  _ Let’s get it over with quickly. _

Leaning closer to the Count, he said in a low voice, “I would rather this were not about to take place.”

“As a Jedi?” Dooku asked. “Or as a general?”

“Both. The Chancellor is much more given to . . . ostentation than I’d like.”

“Ah, General Kenobi, how diplomatic of you,” the Count said. Once again, there was faint amusement, but Obi-Wan’s heart sank—this amusement was chilled, laced with sarcasm. “‘Saber-rattling’ is the term I might have used.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, but before this could happen a rumbling filled the air. Through a violet cloud, a distant light began to increase in intensity. Below, the crowds grew still, staring expectantly at the sky.

Then, like a dagger tearing through a curtain, the prow of the  _ Coelacanth _ pierced the cloud.

The Star Destroyer, a kilometer-long piece of metal, cruised through the air, every single exterior light blazing. Tiny flecks of illumination maneuvered around it in tight spirals—the Sawsharks in their Z-95s, no doubt, as the final touch. It was an easy sight to find awe-inspiring, even beautiful—indeed, below many in the crowd pointed upward, wonderstruck.

Obi-Wan did not share this view.

When Cody had informed him of the instructions Palpatine had passed on, the general had taken a moment to process them. “ _ He wants us to do  _ what _ with the ship? _ ”

Cody hadn’t looked any happier about it than Obi-Wan had. “ _ Bloody grandstanding, if you ask me, but he didn’t. _ ”

And the general had hoped that’s what it would be taken as—grandstanding, obnoxious but not malicious. But Dooku had taken that hope and calmly dashed it against a rock.

Over the distant roar of the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s engines, Obi-Wan said to the ruler of Serenno, “I assure you, that is not my intention.”

“ _ Your _ intention. And what of the Republic’s?”

As the Star Destroyer floated above the city, Dooku turned once again to look at Obi-Wan. “I sympathize with you, General, truly. I can feel your conflict. A Jedi who is forced to put aside his qualms and obey orders because he is a general; a general who can never truly obey his superiors because he is a Jedi.” Arching an eyebrow, he held the general’s eyes with his own piercing gaze. “A problem that, I fear, more and more Jedi must be suffering since I left the Order.”

Obi-Wan made no effort to tamp down his feelings—Dooku had already sensed what he’d sensed. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning,” he replied.

“It speaks to the Order’s oversaturation of Republic positions, does it not, that no less than  _ three _ Jedi have been sent to negotiate with this world? Two of whom, I might add, are directly involved in making war. ‘In the Republic but not of it’ is how the expression went, if my memory serves. What distinction there was seems to be breaking down.”

It hung unspoken in the air:  _ Why do you suppose I left the Order when Serenno passed to me? _

But because it was unspoken, Obi-Wan could not answer it. And besides, it occurred to him as he watched the Sawsharks loop around the  _ Coelacanth _ that he might not  _ have _ an answer. Yes, the idea of a Jedi ruling a moon seemed self-evidently absurd. But his own position as a Jedi who answered directly to the ruler of the galaxy was seeming less and less tenable as of late.

For several moments, the pair simply stood in the breeze and watched the Star Destroyer slowly move across the horizon. Eventually, Obi-Wan said, “I assure you that the Republic has no intention of antagonism. We wish for this summit to ensure Serenno’s safety from the Confederacy—for everyone to benefit. I do not agree with the Chancellor’s taste, but I assure you that is all this is—a lapse in taste.”

This time, Dooku did not turn to look away from the  _ Coelacanth. _ Instead, he simply said, “Your ship may remain until the first day of the summit has concluded. After that, it is to return to orbit. Is that clear, General Kenobi?”

As the Star Destroyer slowly began to dip behind another cloud, Obi-Wan nodded. “Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

“Karin needs to watch herself, she’s gonna clothesline herself on the bridge if she goes any tighter,” Anakin said, watching the Sawsharks weave about through his pair of macrobinoculars.

From beside him, Qui-Gon chuckled. “You mean to tell me you can tell who’s who from here?”

“I mean, I can’t  _ tell _ tell, but you fly with someone long enough, you pick up on flight patterns.” Lowering the binoculars, he glanced over at the other Jedi; she leaned on her cane, watching the show. “Pretty impressive considering they didn’t get any practice in beforehand, huh?”

“No question,” she replied. “I doubt Dooku will feel the same way, though.”

“Aww, come on, he can’t be  _ that _ much of a killjoy.”

Qui-Gon chuckled briefly. “Oh, he could. But that’s not what I mean. I don’t think he takes kindly to having a warship paraded around his moon.”

Dooku, Anakin knew, was somewhere above them—he and Obi-Wan had gone to the uppermost balcony of the palace to observe the arrival. He and Qui-Gon had gone to a lower, but still private, viewing spot.  _ Just as well, _ he thought to himself.  _ Means I can ask her about him. _

Striding over to where his fellow Jedi stood, he asked, “So, about him—”

Eyes glittering with amusement, she raised one of her hands. “No, I can’t tell you why he left.”

“C’mon, it’s not classified or anything.”

“No, but I’m afraid I don’t know why. I don’t think it’s necessarily as simple as  _ one _ reason, anyway.” She shot a glance back at the  _ Coelacanth _ just as it began to pass through another cloud. “People are complicated creatures, Anakin. Why have one motivation when we can have a whole cluster of them?”

“Okay then,” he said, leaning closer. “Your best guess. Why’d he do it?”

Her eyes trailed across the sky, following the  _ Coelacanth _ as it dipped fully into the cloud. “Well, first and foremost, there’s all this.” She waved at the spires rising up below them, at the crowds watching the Star Destroyer’s course. “When Dooku’s uncle died, it fell to him to rule Serenno. He could have abdicated, gone on with the Order, but he didn’t. I imagine he felt it would be a dereliction of duty.”

“So why not just stay in the Order  _ and _ run the moon?”

Turning to look him in the eye, Qui-Gon said, “Let me ask  _ you _ a question. Why did you resist joining the Jedi for so long?”

“I—”

He remembered the gnawing fear that had lurked within him for years, ever since he’d first realized he was . . .  _ different.  _ The rush that came whenever he used the Force to do something impossible, the terror when he realized that wielding that power felt  _ good _ —especially when he was angry. The nauseous, gut-deep horror when he’d committed acts of violence, torn living things limb from limb, with the energy that dwelled within him—even when it had saved the people he loved.

“It scared me,” he said simply. “I didn’t think I could handle it. It could be so easy to . . . to let things go wrong . . .”

“Well,” Qui-Gon said gently, “imagine that you’re the absolute monarch of a world. Hundreds of thousands of people under your control. And in addition to that power, you work for a network of people who can use the Force, who operate all over the galaxy outside any governmental jurisdiction. See the problem?”

He imagined himself standing at the top of the palace’s spire, looking down at an entire world of people under his command. Above them in all senses of the word—in location, in station, in power. All his decisions the law, answerable to no one.

A shudder passed through him.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly.

“That, of course,” Qui-Gon said, “leads into what I’m pretty sure his other reason for leaving was.” Rather than continuing, she simply extended a finger upward.

The entire balcony darkened, thrown under shadow, as the  _ Coelacanth _ passed in front of Aurora’s massive shape, erasing the glowing orb from sight. The white flagstones below their feet shifted into gray; Anakin’s mechanical hand, which had intermittently glittered with reflected light, became matte. The Star Destroyer’s external lights shone like a constellation; the Sawsharks like luminescent birds.

“Dooku,” the female Jedi said, watching the battleship drift overhead like a massive kite, “was never happy with how much the Jedi and the Republic have been blending together. And he left  _ before _ Obi-Wan was in charge of that eyesore.”

“Hey, she’s not an  _ eyesore _ .” Lifting his mouth in a sly grin, he added, “And you’re the one who owns the racecar, you can’t talk.”

“I have it on good authority that you  _ like _ that racecar, Skywalker,” she shot back, her own eyes glinting. “At any rate, I got that thing as a gift from a former Chancellor of the Republic. Seems to only feed into my point. There are Jedi in the military, Jedi in government offices. And most of the worlds we protect are in the Republic, besides the Hutt Space enclave.” The leftover amusement in her eyes from their trading ship insults began to fade. “Hell, there are Jedi who’ve helped the Republic colonize new planets before.”

“Wait, what?” he asked, his voice rising in surprise.

Qui-Gon nodded. “Mostly Knights who assisted in liberating outsider worlds from dictators, or Scholars who helped establish educational institutes after frontier systems gained membership. Believe it or not, I was as much an outlander as you and Amidala for the first several years of my life. It was a Jedi Scholar who discovered me once my planet was inducted into the Republic.”

Anakin supposed that he must have heard of this somewhere before—Qui-Gon didn’t speak about the Jedi taking part in this as though it were a secret. But something about the way she described it made him squirm. It felt . . . creepy, somehow. “How’d your parents feel about you leaving?”

“Ah,” she said, waving a hand dismissively, “my parents were dead. Got killed in the crossfire when the local tinpot dictator dug in his heels. Barely remember them, to be honest, it was so long ago.”

It wasn’t a lie, but Anakin could feel that her outward flippancy was a front. There was a deep sadness behind it, tangible through the Force. “I’m sorry,” he said simply; then, a moment later, “Is that why you ended up in Interplanetary Outreach?”

“I suppose so, yes. So I could make sure that new worlds joined peacefully, like this.”

“. . . but then there’s that,” Anakin finished for her, pointing up at the  _ Coelacanth _ .

“Yes, well. Not my idea.”

As the Star Destroyer’s silhouette ceased its eclipse of Aurora and the shadows began to retreat, Anakin was troubled by a new thought. “Qui-Gon, you would never—you don’t think Dooku had the right idea, do you?”

“If you’re asking whether I’d ever leave the Order, the answer’s no,” she replied, reaching forward and patting his flesh hand with hers reassuringly. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I’ll admit that Dooku’s reasons for leaving seem to have been prescient. But I prefer reforming things from within to just walking away.”

Stepping back from the balcony’s edge, she stretched. “And  _ speaking _ of walking away, I’ve got to move before my entire body is stiff. Shall we head back inside to wait for the others?”

Wordlessly, he trailed her back toward the interior of the palace, raising his eyes one more time to watch the Sawsharks in their dance around the Star Destroyer.

Suddenly, the fun had gone out of it.

He didn’t have to wonder how Padmé would have felt knowing the Jedi took active part in bringing new worlds over to the Republic. Nor did he have to guess whether she would have approved of him entering the order had she known. And while an adolescent part of him whined,  _ She’s not your  _ mother _ , Skywalker,  _ he knew he wouldn’t want to face her if she ever found out.

_ But is it even  _ wrong _?  _ he thought to himself. Padmé certainly thought so. Dooku seemed to be of the same mind, if what Qui-Gon said was true. But making things better was the Jedi’s  _ job _ . Why  _ not _ help liberate a planet if it was going to

_ (kill Qui-Gon’s parents) _

make things better in the long run?

_ Remember how horrible you thought it would have been for Dooku to rule while remaining a Jedi?  _ he whispered to himself.  _ Having that responsibility for so many people, making the decisions with nothing to check you? _

_ But it’s not  _ like _ that,  _ he argued back,  _ the Jedi aren’t making the calls, they’re just doing what the Republic wants them to— _

_ Which was another part of Dooku’s problem, _ the inner voice finished.

“Anakin? You coming?”

Startled, he glanced up to see Qui-Gon standing in the doorway, leaning on her cane, staring at him—he must have stopped walking midway across the balcony. A sudden breeze tore at his face, making him shiver.

“Right, yeah,” he said, “on my way.” Jogging forward, he followed her back into the palace.

_ Obi-Wan. I need to talk to Obi-Wan about this. _

 

* * *

 

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: TOKEN OF UNBINDING** _

Handcrafted medallion bestowed upon those who choose to leave the Jedi Order. During a private ceremony, a Temple Chaplain guides the departing Jedi in one final meditation, concluding with the gifting of the token. No two tokens are identical. They are always crafted by a Jedi close to the one leaving—usually their own master or student. 

On one side, a portion of the ritual unbinding meditation is inscribed—”The Order welcomed you in peace, as you now depart in peace. May the light shine upon you as you go. The Force will be with you, always.” On the reverse side of the medallion, the crest of the Jedi Order is carved. This serves as a reminder that the departed Jedi is always welcome to return to the Order, should they so choose. 


	22. Covert Operation

The  _ Charybdis _ emerged at the very edge of the system; a few moments later, Valis felt the distant  _ thunk _ of the frigates that accompanied the flagship reverting to realspace as well. No bigger than a marble, far ahead of them, sat a greyish sphere. Their destination.

Wayland.

“Unless their sensors are military grade,” Rama said from her console, “they won’t be able to detect us this far out. As long as we stay still, of course.”

Staying still, Valis thought as she watched the planet, would not be a problem. Not for the bigger ships, anyway.

Down on the surface of Wayland was something she and Maul had been watching for some time: an illegal cloning operation, one that supplied replacement limbs and body parts to the highest bidder. Valis remembered back to her days as a mercenary, when she’d run into an old comrade who’d been missing a limb the last time she’d seen him. On the day of this reunion, he’d been sporting a brand-new arm, one that moved as naturally as if it had been his from birth.

She’d whistled. “ _ That’s some impressive synthflesh. Almost looks real. _ ”

Smirking, the man had shaken his head. “ _ Who says it isn’t? Little bit newer than the rest of me, is all. _ ”

It had taken Valis a second to get it; then she’d grinned in disbelief. “ _ That cloning operation over in your neck of the woods is real, then? _ ”

“ _ It’s real, all right. Cost me an arm and a leg, though, _ ” he’d added, before breaking into guffaws.

The meeting had ended up being an attempted double-cross, one that left Valis walking out a bit worse for wear and her old friend dead on the floor, but she hadn’t forgotten the piece of information. And ever since the Confederacy had taken her on, she’d had the feeling that one day it would prove . . . useful.

Now, looking at it from afar, she knew how careful her forces would have to be. Shock and awe was the Confederacy’s preferred tactic—whether that meant full-scale assault or Mekosk’s method of simply obliterating cities from orbit—but Valis had always preferred a scalpel to explosives. And even if that weren’t the case, a surprise attack from orbit was entirely infeasible here. For she and Maul to achieve their ends—to gain themselves some autonomy from the Chief Executor—the facility needed to be captured entirely intact. Bombarding it from orbit would be worse than useless; giving the pirates enough advance warning to scuttle the place even moreso.

The frigates would be crucial for maintaining their hold on the planet once it was taken. But for now, they would stay put.

“All right,” Valis said, turning to Rama. “Prepare the lander.”

The  _ Charybdis _ ’ comm unit was powerful enough to punch through Wayland’s atmosphere even from this far out. In that lander were three squads of clones armed to the teeth—two sets of humans and one set of Trandoshans for backup. They’d slingshot around to the dark side of the planet, land, and take the facility on foot, with Valis guiding them from the bridge. Once the facility was secure, they’d land the frigates’ ground troops, and Taun We would be taken down to examine the equipment.

_ Cutting it a little fine, Sephone, _ she thought to herself—they had no way of knowing the numbers of the gang that currently ran the place. But any more would risk setting off alarms too early, and the firepower packed by the teams would be more than sufficient to take down most resistance.

From behind, the bridge doors swept open. She’d been expecting it—a familiar chilly prickle had been playing across the back of her neck for several moments. Looking up at the new arrival, she said with as much condescension as she could muster, “Ah, Lord Maul. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Belay that,” Maul snapped at Rama, who flicked a glance at him that was half sudden wariness and half envy—Valis had dimly sensed the first officer’s continued thrill at the warlord’s singlehanded takedown of the Bloody Talons for the last several hours.

Locking her eyes on the Zabrak’s amber irises, Valis ground her back teeth together. “We’ve discussed the details of this operation, Maul—”

“We’re going down in the  _ Scimitar _ ,” he cut across her. “You and me. Alone.”

Opening her mouth to tell him this could be discussed outside, Valis suddenly stopped herself.  _ Let the man make his case in front of everyone. The clones don’t care, and Rama could do with a glimpse at what I have to deal with on a regular bloody basis.  _ Baring her teeth in a wolfish not-smile she’d learned from the Zabrak, she said, “Explain, please.”

Cocking his horned head, Maul simply stared in silence for a moment.  _ My lord,  _ Valis thought,  _ he’s not actually embarrassed to talk about this on the bridge, is he? Must know he’d look weak with nothing to back his plan but Sith bravado— _

Then, raising his piercing eyes back to look directly at hers, he spoke.

“You assume in sending the lander that the gang members down there don’t have military-grade hardware. The tractor beam on that frigate had a power rating similar to a Republic warship’s—if the pirates were allied with those down on Wayland, for all we know they have a sensor suite that’s top-of-the-line. If the lander is detected, there’s no choice but to engage on the ground and waste time or fire from orbit and endanger the facility. And if they have jammers and detect your communication with the squads, they can cripple your ability to give orders.

“The  _ Scimitar _ has limited cloaking capabilities. I am more dangerous than any squad of wetwork units”—this was not a boast but a statement of fact—“and you can more than hold your own on the ground. Besides this, you used to be one of these people. You’ll have better . . . intuitions,” he said, giving her a significant look, “as to their tactics than any of our clone units. The only choice is for us to travel down there. Alone.”

Finished, he stood, motionless, waiting for her response.

_ Son of a bitch. _

It certainly wasn’t airtight. But he’d raised concerns Valis had already been entertaining herself, and which her first officer had almost certainly been mulling over as well. She had continued with her plan because there simply wasn’t a better alternative—not one that wasn’t blindingly stupid, anyway.

Maul, it seemed, didn’t worry about such trifling objections as stupidity.

These thoughts passed through Valis’ head within the space of about a second. Outwardly, she showed no hesitation as she shot back, “Once again, you want to send one of the Confederacy’s most singularly valuable assets down to fight an enemy of unknown numbers. And this time you want to include a member of the Executive Board  _ and _ the highest-ranking officer in the fleet.”

She’d half hoped to trick him into a petty attempt to bring up his victory against the Talons, but evidently the warlord was too clever for that. Instead, he replied, “The Confederacy is only valuable if it can win wars. Mekosk’s obsession with superweapons can only be countered by a new stream of soldiers, soldiers that need to be grown. If we didn’t think Wayland were vital to that, we wouldn’t be here. And if we fail in an unauthorized mission, one we lied about, the Board will have our heads anyway.”

Valis longed for some background noise—chatting bridge crew, beeping klaxons, anything—but the ship’s alerts were silent, and the clones were not given to small talk. There was simply the faint hum of the air reprocessor as she and the warlord stared at each other.

“I want an escort,” she snapped back. “Two shock troopers. And if something goes wrong, I’ll be contacting this ship immediately for extraction.”

Maul gave no outward sign of smugness, but Valis could feel his satisfaction and wanted to put her fist through his tattooed face. “Done.”

She turned to Rama. “You have the conn. If I contact you, I want that lander on the ground and ready to get us out.”

The Pau’an nodded, excitement in her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want me coming?”

“Oh,” Valis said pointedly, though she did not look at Maul, “no. If the two of us die, someone will need to report to the Board exactly what happened.”

 

* * *

 

In an inversion of their usual positions, Maul noted to himself with faint amusement, Valis paced the confined length of the  _ Scimitar _ ’s cockpit over and over as he calmly handled the controls, keeping their angle of approach steady while making sure the cloaking device was still working efficiently. She’d not been in the ship much before—their trip to Korriban had been the only extended period of time she’d spent within it—and he could feel her agitation at someone else calling the shots on a starship she was passenger on. Not that this was the only thing agitating her.

“How many will be guarding it?” he asked her.

“I’ve no way of knowing,” she snapped back, coming to a standstill; he did not turn his head but could still feel her glare on the back of his neck. “But if I had to guess, I’d say a minimum of one squad per level.”

“And you brought your—”

“Of course I brought my bloody lightsaber, I’m not an imbecile.”

This was the key, he thought to himself—needle her just enough to keep her on a constant knife’s edge, without pushing so hard that she exploded here and now. Let her build up pressure until she had to unleash it on the enemies below, give herself in to the dark side’s rush.

The biggest thing needling her, he sensed, was her knowledge that his plan had been better than hers.

“We can’t repeat what you pulled on that ship,” she said to him. “If we make enough noise on our way to the control center, they’ll scuttle the whole place. Things have to be kept quiet.”

Wayland loomed through the viewport now, and flames were beginning to lap at the edges of the  _ Scimitar _ as they crossed into the atmosphere. This was the point where they were most likely to be detected, but Maul knew it wouldn’t happen—meteors fell all the time, and with the cloak masking the ship’s energy signature that’s all they would register as to any scanners that happened to be watching. Of course, if they got close enough to the cloning facility they would be blown—the cloak could only do so much to obscure a starship landing a few hundred yards away—so Maul was bringing it in several miles from their destination.

The rest of the journey, they’d take on foot.

“What are your friends carrying?” he asked, twisting the ship’s nose to avoid passing through a wisp of cloud.

“One blaster rifle apiece, some sticky grenades, vibroblades. Standard kit.”

Nodding, Maul said, “I thought you didn’t want noise made.”

“Yes, well, if noise  _ does _ get made I’d rather have the explosives.”

They were beneath cloud cover now, close enough that the facility could be seen in the distance. From the air, it didn’t look like much—a bunker several stories high, launchpad on the top for incoming customers and employees, a couple of perimeter turbolasers for defense. “They probably relied on the hyperlane grift to control who was entering the system,” Valis said from over his shoulder. “Resistance will be fairly light before we make our way inside.” Some of the ire left her voice as she slid into tactical mode. “If the layout is similar to the Kaminoans’ facilities, the central control chamber will be embedded down below. Saves us having to fight through a few floors, if I’m right. Though they’ll come running once they realize what’s going on.”

“Saves us having to seek them out and kill them.”

“There is that.” Starting her back-and-forth traversal of the cockpit again, she said, “If we can hole up in the control room and position the clones at the door with rifles it should make an efficient chokepoint. We may not even need to dirty our hands once we’ve made it down there.”

Maul didn’t dignify this with a response.

“Beginning final approach,” he said, bringing the  _ Scimitar _ into a wide curve toward a forested area several miles west of the facility. The trees would hopefully block the ship from any prying eyes.

The dark side had called him here for a reason, that he knew. If Valis insisted on fantasies of others bloodying their hands for her . . . well, he’d just have to do his best to disabuse her of that notion.

And if she simply couldn’t handle doing her own dirty work? He supposed his master would have no trouble coming up with a new admiral for the Confederacy.

 

* * *

 

As the  _ Scimitar _ ’s boarding ramp lowered, Valis gratefully let the fresh Wayland air wash across her face. It had been . . .  _ How long  _ has _ it been since I’ve been planetside?  _ Months at least. This planet’s air could have been rank with toxins and it still would have probably felt like heaven.

A breeze whispered through the trees that Maul had landed among. The admiral simply stood there for a minute, bathing in it; then, she straightened up and turned to the two clone soldiers who’d accompanied them. Both humans were encased in heavy armor, only their identical blue eyes showing through their visors. They’d remained silent on the way down; now, they simply stood, waiting for instructions.

“We’re going in quietly,” Valis began, “which means breaching the doors without explosives. Warlord Maul and I have some tools that should probably make short work of that, but you’ll need to—”

She was interrupted by a sickeningly loud, wet  _ crack _ , as though someone had snapped a particularly large limb off a roasted bird. Both clones remained still for an endless fraction of a second, as though the stiffness of their armor was keeping them upright; then they collapsed to the deck, their corpses bracketing Maul as he exited the cockpit.

“Now that that’s out of our way,” he said simply, striding past her down the ramp.

It had been a long while since the Zabrak had slaughtered some of his own troops. Valis almost hadn’t been expecting it.

“Wait,” she snapped at him, bending down over one of the clones.

Turning around, he sneered, exposing rotten teeth. “For what?”

Hauling the dead wetwork into a sitting position, Valis slipped the grenade belt off his corpse and began strapping it to her own waist. “Unless there’s something in the Sith Code that’s specifically against using weapons besides lightsabers, I’m bringing these.” Reaching into her holster, she pulled out her sidearm and waved it in the air. “And this.”

Earlier today she would have screamed at him. But she’d been half-expecting this from the moment he simply agreed to her demand of extra troopers without protest, and for better or worse they were in it now. Fighting wasn’t going to help anything.

Watching her finish strapping the belt to herself, the Zabrak nodded once. “Fine. Don’t rely on them.”

Beneath her hard-fought control, she could feel her fury at the warlord boiling. But Maul was right about one thing—now that she was away from the confines of the  _ Charybdis _ , it could be put to better use than another shouting match.

She grabbed the anger, formed it into a tight, white-hot ball. Held it in her fist.

Crushed it. Let it flow outward from her mind and into the distance.

Toward the cloning facility.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said to herself, and to Maul, and to the dark side.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CLOAKING DEVICE** _

The term “cloaking device” can refer to a number of machines designed to mask a ship’s sensor presence. The cheapest and most common is an emissions sink, which captures the heat output of a ship and stores it so that the vessel does not appear on another ship’s sensors. Most emissions sinks are quite large, used only on capital-grade warships—and only for brief periods of time, lest the stored heat damage other ship systems. This variation of a cloaking device also carries a critical flaw: it does not mask a ship’s visible presence.

To erase a ship entirely from view, a more advanced cloaking device is necessary. A special array of light-scattering projectors can bend light around a vessel, causing it to appear invisible to the naked eye. This, too, comes with a caveat: the effect works in both directions. Full visual cloaking is not frequently used in space combat—the device often poses more of a danger than it does an advantage, as it forces pilots to fly blind for as long as it is active. 


	23. Dead Ends

Sipping his umpteenth mug of caf, Bail squinted at the sheaf of paper before him and tried for what seemed like the fifth time in a row to get past the first two sentences. It was part of the minutes from Palpatine’s official staff meetings during his tenure as governor—on  _ this _ occasion, there had been a passionate discussion on tariffs between the native Gungan population and the government of Theed, something to do with the price of kolo claw fish per pound. “You know,” he said to the room in general, “I never thought my work with the education committee would seem like an interesting alternative to . . . anything else, and yet here I am.”

“You could always take a look at these finance logs, Senator,” offered Ellis from where she lay sprawled on the couch, holding her own sheets of paper up to the light. “At least your stuff is written in complete sentences.”

Marsalis Kazan, wiping at his brow, shuffled wordlessly through a stack of papers, looking ready to shoot something—Padmé and Ellis had apparently sorted them wrong after copying them, and now a couple hundred pages of legislation were entirely out of order.

“You know,” Padmé groaned, stepping back from the kitchenette with a cup of caf in one hand and a piece of fruit in the other, “when we figured out none of his records were digitized I figured maybe it was because he had something to hide. Who even prints stuff on paper anymore?” Collapsing onto the couch next to Ellis, she started blearily at the wall. “Now I think they were trying to limit exposure to something so boring it’s hazardous to your health.” Sighing, she blinked once, slowly; then her head started to fall forward. She swore and jerked it back upright.

“Maybe your Jedi friend had the right idea,” Bail said, throwing his reading material down to the floor; Raymus made a faintly scandalized sound as the paper sprayed onto the carpet. “If nothing else, I think we have to call it quits for the night. My reading comprehension went the way of my executive career about an hour ago.”

“So what’ve we learned, then?” Padmé asked, rubbing furiously at her eyes.

“Big fat nothing,” Ellis said, rising to her feet and stretching with a noise somewhere between relief and agony. “If there was money getting funneled anywhere, I haven’t seen it.”

“His staff meetings were absolutely spotless in their dullness,” Bail put in, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“None of the legislation he proposed was unconstitutional or obviously unethical in any way,” Raymus said.

“Likewise on this end,” rumbled Kazan as he gave up trying to sort papers and simply tossed them to the ground in disgust.

“Everything I read was very boring,” Liz called from the bedroom where she’d decided to take her leave from the organics. “If that’s any help.”

“All right, then, we’re agreed,” Bail said, turning his head from side to side in an effort to ease the stiffness in his neck. “This has been a complete and utter waste of time so far. If there are no further objections, I am officially canceling document review for the time being.”

A chorus of mute, grateful nods bobbed across the hotel room at this.

Rising from his chair and groaning, Bail checked his watch. “Well, it is currently four in the morning, which means the sun doesn’t rise for another three hours. I suggest we squeeze in as much sleep as is possible for us to get. Padmé, what’s on the itinerary for tomorrow?”

“Splitting the party,” she replied, reaching for the nearby endtable and picking up her personal tablet to check their plans. “Two of us are going to check out Palpatine’s vineyard.” 

Raymus and Ellis raised their hands.

“One more is gonna go back to the library and see if there’s anything more exciting there.”

Reluctantly, Kazan nodded.

“Bail, you and I are gonna have to stick together while you do Education Committee stuff; you can’t afford to just not turn up until the big shindig. We can do our best to scope out the palace or something.”

“And what about Windu?” Bail asked, throwing a significant glance to the hotel room’s door. “Assuming he ever comes back to us.”

Growling low in her throat, his head of security somehow managed to make her next sip of caf look vicious. “He gets paired with Liz, serves the bastard right. Assuming he’s up to something useful right now rather than just screwing around, she can help him keep doing that. And on  _ that _ note,” she concluded, setting her mug on the couch, almost knocking it over, and then catching herself and setting it on the endtable, “enjoy your two hours of sleep, everyone.”

Had Bail been feeling more awake and more petty, he might have taken Padmé aside and teased that when it came to hiring unknown Jedi for secret missions, he’d gotten the better deal two years ago. But his sense of humor seemed to have burned out along with his cognitive abilities, and he doubted she’d take kindly to the remark. Instead, he shuffled through a floor full of scattered papers, aiming for the nearest bedroom.  _ Mon, _ he thought to himself,  _ even you might have second thoughts about keeping things on the level after a few hours of this. _

 

* * *

 

“Y’know,” Ellis said to Raymus Antilles, “when I heard Palpatine had a vineyard I didn’t realize it was underwater.”

“I just hope it’s fresh,” the pilot replied. “Salty grapes aren’t exactly my idea of tasty.”

The pair stood in a glass tunnel, along with several other sets of tourists. Surrounding them on all sides was crystalline water, so free of murk that the sunlight filtering down was almost equivalent to what it was above ground. Some of that light was blocked by the massive stalks planted in even rows in the muck at the floor of the lake; leafy branches unfolded from them, the green folds swaying back and forth with the water’s motion. At first, if one didn’t know better, the plants could be taken for Naboo’s local variant of kelp. As the leaves were lifted by water, however, Ellis and Raymus caught sight of the pale green orbs suspended beneath them—marine grapes.

“As you can see,” said the tour-guide droid wheeling down the tunnel a few feet ahead of them, “we do allow certain species of fish to swim free through the vineyard. These fish are not carnivores; they nibble at the branches of the grapes, effectively pruning them. Were the fish to die, the grape plants would grow out of control, choking each other from sunlight and nutrients. Now, if you’ll direct your attention to . . .”

As the rest of the group headed for the end of the tunnel, the Clawdite and the pilot lagged behind, watching a large, silvery fish nip at a green-white fruit. Leaning toward Raymus’ ear, Ellis whispered in a voice that sounded curiously as though it were coming from a droid’s vocabulator, “Ah, yes, if you’ll direct your attention over here I’ll continue to bore you while enticing you to buy something from the gift shop.”

“What  _ are _ we even doing here, exactly?” he asked her. “Besides eventually buying overpriced wine that we won’t be sharing with the rest of the group.”

“Maybe if the wine is overpriced enough we charge him with price gouging?” Shrugging, Ellis scratched at her snout with a clawed finger and sighed. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I’m pretty sure no one at the command level thought this out beyond traveling to the library and magically finding dirt that everyone else had overlooked for years.”

Nodding wearily, the pilot watched the sunlight shimmer across the surface of the water. “I suppose we could always do some sneaking around, see if we magically stumble across something damning.”

“Strictly on the level, the Senator said. Besides, Amidala would murder us once we got caught.”

“Assuming the ‘peacekeeping corps’ didn’t first. Hey, we better get going, everyone else is probably buying all the wine.”

As they jogged down the rest of the tunnel to make up for lost time, Ellis considered. “That could be something, y’know. A whole cluster of a supposedly unbiased peacekeeping force standing guard outside the former governor’s privately run vineyard? That seems like an abuse of executive authority.”

“Oh, come on, Korven,” Raymus shot back, “how would that look to the public? ‘Hey, we know you guys all love the Chancellor and he’s doing whatever it takes to win a war that I, Bail Organa, started, but it turns out he might be spending a fraction of a fraction of a percent of taxpayer money protecting his grapes, so you’ve gotta call for his impeachment now.”

His own voice shot back at him. “‘I’m Raymus Antilles, and even the  _ idea _ of trying to be useful gives me hives.’” Lapsing back to her usual, Ellis sighed. “You’re not wrong, but still, that doesn’t seem weird to you?”

“Sure it does. Palpatine is being an utter hypocrite, calling for an end to personal favoritism among the military and then pulling this. But if that’s not something we can use against him, it’s a waste of time to keep thinking about it.”

“Yeah.” Blowing out a frustrated breath as they hit the end of the tunnel, the Clawdite picked up her pace. “Come on, let’s go buy his wine.”

 

* * *

 

Marsalis Kazan, his movements muffled by the library’s auditory dampening fields, tapped at the archive terminal, scrolling through page after page of records. Fortunately for everyone involved, especially him, the library  _ had _ digitized all official files from Palpatine’s tenure as mayor where it had failed to do so with his subsequent governorship. A Twi’lek had helpfully pointed Kazan to the proper archive, lingering a while to make sure he was navigating it properly.  _ So now,  _ he thought to himself,  _ all I have to do is read of all of it. _

If there were an actual, tangible operation to be worked on, he could handle it. If Senator Organa’s safety were at stake, he would give his all. If Coruscant were somehow invaded, he’d pick up a blaster and join the fray. But sitting here, scanning page after page of documents looking for only the vaguest “evidence of wrongdoing . . .”

_ None of us knows what they’re doing. The Senator and Amidala panicked, wanted to feel useful, and now we’ve wasted days in a wild goose chase after nothing. _

So far today, he’d gone through a couple hundred pages. There was nothing obviously wrong with anything, and anything more subtle than “obvious” was not something he was likely to discover. He’d been hired to take bullets if necessary, not to look for tax fraud.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself, the library suppressing the profanity to the faintest whisper.

 

* * *

 

“Welp,” Padmé said to the assembled conspirators, “our day was a total waste of time. Anyone else’s?”

Mingled nods and groans.

“Gods  _ damn _ it,” she hissed. “And Windu and Liz are both missing, so they’ve been a big help.”

Her own day had been spent standing alongside Bail while he shook hands and listened to speeches and said some half-hearted words himself about the university’s fundraising efforts. The only point of interest for Padmé had been watching the new peacekeeping corps whenever she and Bail ducked out onto the street. White armor, gleaming in the sunlight, marched up and down in even rows; occasionally, one of the new patrol walkers ambled by across the square, its legs pumping like some frightful flightless bird’s. The utilitarian aesthetic marred the stone of Theed, but it was more than that—the image of a constant watching eye stirred something deeply uneasy within her. Knowing that Palpatine himself had arranged for this new force to be set up hadn’t helped.

“Hey, at least we got some wine,” Ellis offered, raising a bottle of the stuff. “So we can all drown our sorrows tonight.”

“Where  _ is _ Windu, anyway?” Bail asked, looking distinctly put out. “Did he ever show up?”

“Yeah, before you woke up,” replied Padmé. The Jedi had been out all night, but he hadn’t even attempted getting some sleep when he returned; he’d entered the kitchen, seen her brewing caf, snatched a mug off the counter, and waited. She’d been too exhausted to ask him where he’d been, but when he turned to leave again, she’d sent Liz after him. In one of her good moods, the droid had gone easily; Windu had shrugged and accepted it rather than arguing.

Setting his teeth, the Senator said, “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to consider him AWOL from here on out. If he isn’t back by the end of the trip, he can hitch his own damn ride back to Coruscant.

“I have to apologize, everyone,” he continued. “We had no plan coming in here, and I seem to have wasted—”

“The Senator is trying to take a bullet for me,” Padmé interrupted, “and that’s my job, not his.” Her brows knitting together, she looked down at the carpet and then back up at Raymus, Kazan, and Ellis. “This was my idea, and I’m way too used to my ideas just working out without prior planning. This time it bit us in the ass. Sorry, everyone.”

“So what do we do with the time we have left?” Kazan asked immediately after this.

Padmé shot the man a quick glare; the apology had been genuine, but having it stepped on made her feel somewhat less than gracious. “I don’t know, Marsalis. Again, I’m sorry.”

“We didn’t finish document review,” Ellis said, her expression growing sour. “I suppose we pick up the papers and finish those. Gotta do something until the actual gala.”

“I don’t exactly have any better ideas,” Bail said, “but if we’re going to do that we have to make it more systematic. Frequent breaks to refresh our eyes, shift changes once it gets late—”

“Great, planning!” a muffled voice said from the hallway. “For entirely the wrong thing.”

All eyes whipped toward the hotel room’s door; it fell open, Mace Windu striding through with his usual expression of disdain. Liz trundled in behind him.

Something about him seemed . . . off, Padmé noted. Probably it was just a lack of sleep, but his posture was a bit looser, his eyes a bit less sharp. He looked almost  _ relaxed _ , something she had yet to experience with him. And definitely not something she’d expect after he’d spent a day with Liz.

“So where have you two been?” Ellis asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Sightseeing?”

“I’m not the one who decided it’d be worthwhile to tour a damn winery,” the Jedi shot back, not bothering to grace the Clawdite with direct eye contact. Instead, his gaze on Padmé and Bail, he said, “We need to talk.”

_ Welp, whatever has him feeling looser, he still doesn’t care much about politeness.  _ “About?”

“You ever find it suspicious,” the Jedi asked Bail, “that Palpatine was so gung-ho to run for Chancellor right when a war was breaking out?”

Frowning, the Senator replied, “It was certainly a surprise, but he’d been laying the groundwork for years. Making friends in the right places, voting for the proper things—”

“I’ve been reading up on the man ever since I got back to Coruscant,” Windu overrode him, “and from what I can tell he was  _ fiercely _ opposed to war with the Confederacy as the conflict was starting to boil over. So why does he then decide to make his bid for the top spot right when a war with them has broken out and it’s going to overwhelm any other policies he’d want to spotlight?”

“Maybe he thought he couldn’t win a normal election and took his opportunity. At any rate, I fail to see how that’s—”

“Let me tell you a story, Senator.” Padmé half-expected Bail to cut Windu off in turn and berate him for the disrespect, but something in the Jedi’s expression, still stony despite the lack of its usual edge, seemed to command compliance; Organa said nothing, simply furrowed his brow and waited.

“I don’t know if you heard, but I used to work in Hutt space. A few years back, there was this particular Hutt who was running guns off one of the moons of Nal Hutta. I was trying to take her down, but I couldn’t just walk in with my lightsaber and take on her entire organization. So I waited.

“Eventually, someone beat me to the punch and went for her first. Her old right-hand man, this Weequay. Took a bunch of her men, started his own faction, and tried to kick her off the moon. Now, the Hutts don’t exactly get along with each other that well, but they  _ definitely _ don’t take kindly to some Weequay trying to push out one of their own. So, the other cartels start to back her. Contribute money, weapons, people, you name it. And she and this Weequay fight it out for a few months.

“Now, I was curious. This thing seemed like it had been going on for a  _ long _ time—if this Hutt was half as ruthless as she was supposed to be, she should have been able to take the resources the others shared with her and gone scorched-earth on her old right-hand man within a matter of weeks. But months and months had passed and they were still going at it. So I decided to do some investigating.

“I couldn’t get at this Hutt, but that Weequay? I could manage him. So I tracked him down and cornered him in his office, and he ended up being pretty talkative once I got going on a few of his bones. Turns out, he was  _ still _ working for his old boss. As long as they were fighting, she could count on the other Hutts funneling her resources—which my Weequay friend got a cut from, of course. So I taped his confession and sent it to the other cartels. Gun running didn’t last too long on that moon after that.”

Looking around the room, he fixed his eyes on each and every other person’s. “Just think about it. Palpatine gets the top spot right after the war starts, and then things start changing in the name of ending the war quicker. New peacekeeping forces start patrolling planets. Executive orders start going out more and more. And now he wants to bring other planets into the Republic whether they want it or not.”

Several seconds of silence hung over the room. Then, Bail said, “Are you saying Palpatine is deliberately  _ prolonging  _ the war?”

“I’m saying the war sure seems to have been convenient for him since he started running it. And if we really want to take him down, that’s the place we should be looking. Not vineyards. Not libraries.” Looking significantly at Padmé, he added, “And to do that, we’re going to have to stop worrying about the rules.”z

_ Well, no wonder he’s feeling so good, _ Padmé thought.  _ If that’s true, he has us over a barrel. _

“If we want to stop this, Organa,” the Jedi continued, “we have to be prepared to get our hands dirty. Working within the law isn’t quick enough, and it isn’t good enough.” To the rest of the hotel room: “If any of you are uncomfortable with that, that’s fine. But I came with you to get something done, and I’m not going to blow our best chance to find something on Palpatine because Senator Organa is nervous about getting caught and wrecking his career a second time.”

From behind him, Liz threw in, her eyes gleaming red, “I’m with him. At least his way is fun.”

Padmé watched Bail mull this over, silently considering all that Windu had dropped on them. Then, clearing his throat, the Senator said with a voice made of flint, “First of all, Windu, I ‘wrecked my career’ the first time because one of your Order’s lives was on the line. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t question my commitment again. Is that clear?”

Windu’s eyes widened a small degree; then, as zif pleasantly surprised that he’d been stood up to, he nodded. “Fine. My apologies.”

Nodding back, Bail turned to Padmé. “I’m sure the two of you have already discussed this. Do you want to explain to me what illegal thing we’re going to be doing over the rest of our time here?”

Something unhitched within her chest that had been tightened like a vise for the last two days. Looking at Windu, then at Bail, she felt a smile starting to play the corners of her mouth. “Well, actually, Windu and I haven’t talked about it at all.  _ But _ . . . I do have an idea of what we could do.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: HUTT SPACE—LAW** _

The old smuggler’s adage of “anything goes in Hutt Space” is, for the most part, true. Actual law enforcement is practically nonexistent within the sector; vigilante justice reigns supreme, with private investigators and bounty hunters patrolling the various outlying worlds under the command of anyone with a grudge and enough credits. This adage comes with one significant caveat: anything goes in Hutt Space, so long as the Hutts allow it. 

The closer one is to the center of Hutt Space, the more cautious they must be not to cross one of the many Hutt crime families. On Nal Hutta and its numerous moons, the Hutts act as judge, jury, and executioner—most cartels have a small army of bounty hunters and mercenaries on retainer for the sole purpose of hunting down those who have wronged them. 

Hutts themselves are not immune to this form of rogue prosecution. Though the various cartels enjoy a relatively peaceful coexistence, conflict does flare up from time to time. When it does, alliances are quick to form—crime families back whichever Hutts they perceive as the likely victor of a conflict, and power is often consolidated in the wake of these turf wars. It is therefore crucial for a Hutt to stay in the good graces of their fellow crime lords—if they do not, they may find themselves banished to the edge of Hutt Space, or even forced out of the sector entirely. 


	24. An Impasse

Clouds kissed the edges of the balcony railing as Obi-Wan sat at the outdoor café, sipping a mug of tea and flicking through government documents on the datapad in front of him. He squinted against the evening sun as it filtered through the floating platforms beyond, and silently bemoaned Serenno’s glacial pace of rotation. 

He’d slept well enough his first night on Serenno, thanks in part to the blackout curtains hanging in the palace suite he’d been assigned. Waking up was another matter entirely. There was something just plain wrong about throwing open said curtains and finding the sun in the exact same spot it had been when he’d gone to bed. Anakin, his body used to sleeping on space stations and in caves, had been all too chipper when Obi-Wan had bumped into him in the palace hallway. His student’s cheeriness had been nothing but irritating, and had somehow made the Jedi Master even more tired. 

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, pushing the rising curls of steam away from the hot tea, and took another extended sip. The content of the datapad certainly wasn’t helping his drowsiness—he was brushing up on the ins and outs of Republic trade law, hoping he could convince Dooku that Serenno’s economy wouldn’t suffer if they joined. 

Glancing upward, he watched as a hulking machine shaped like a stocky humanoid launched itself off the edge of a nearby platform and sailed into the clouds below. This piqued the general’s interest—he stood up ever so slightly, peering over the balcony and watching as the mechanical entity disappeared into a cloud layer. He raised an eyebrow as he sat back down.  _ Wonder what that was.  _

“Mining droid,” came the audible answer, as though the speaker had heard Obi-Wan’s thoughts. Looking up, he realized she probably  _ had  _ heard him think. It was Qui-Gon, looking decidedly more awake than he was as she made her way across the café patio. 

“Looks big enough to fit a driver inside,” he replied. 

“It is. That’s how they used to do it. It’s insanely dangerous going that far down, of course, so eventually they started automating them and keeping the pilots topside to fill other roles.” 

He nodded, then lifted his mug off the table and gestured with it slightly. “Want something to drink?” 

Qui-Gon shook her head. “No time.” Leaning harder into her cane, she raised one arm and  gestured back in the direction she came from—back, Obi-Wan knew, toward the palace. “They’re ready for us.” 

Taking one last glance at the datapad, he scooped it up in one arm as he rose to his feet. He nodded, then motioned in the same direction Qui-Gon had a moment prior. “Very well. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

  
  


The endlessly traded volleys of negotiation had long since been relegated to background noise for Anakin Skywalker. He sat alongside his fellow Jedi, on one side of a lengthy conference table. Directly across from them were Dooku and Lorian; the latter much more engaged than the former. The conversation, as far as Anakin could tell, had turned to the matter of infrastructure. Something about how the Aurora system’s holonet beacon maintenance would be taken over by the Republic if Serenno joined. 

Obi-Wan was the one doing the speaking, though Anakin barely heard it. He tried his best to glance around the room without being obvious. First his eyes turned upward, to the angular metal ribcage lining the ceiling of the palace throne room. Then, to the statues along the wall, and the stained glass windows that bracketed each one. Finally he eyed the armored guards, who stood on either side of every doorway brandishing battle axes.  _ I hope those aren’t for us,  _ he thought. 

_ Pay attention,  _ he heard a voice dart across his consciousness—this was accompanied by a jab in his side. It had felt real, as though someone had actually poked a finger into his ribs, but when Anakin looked up he could see that Obi-Wan sat perfectly still, and hadn’t reached over to touch him at all. 

Frowning, the young Jedi returned his attention to the pair of Serennans across the table. Though Lorian was speaking, it was the Count himself who caught Anakin’s eye. Dooku was sitting back slightly, stroking the grey hairs of his beard contemplatively. His eyes seemed to say something, though what exactly it was Anakin couldn’t be sure. He risked extending a mental probe in Dooku’s direction—just as he had been the day before, the man was impossible to read. 

Fortunately for Anakin, the Count made his feelings known just a moment later. 

“Gentlemen,” Dooku interrupted, quickly glancing between his husband and Obi-Wan. He held up a hand as he spoke. “I’m sorry, but holonet maintenance is not exactly a concern of mine. Nor, I’m sure, does it concern my people. There is one reason I agreed to this meeting: the war.” At this, Dooku leaned forward, into the center of the conference table. “The Confederacy approaches. Their total capture of the Corporate Sector concerns me, much as I’m sure it concerns your Chancellor. What can the Republic do for us in that regard?”

Anakin let his gaze drift across the table—from Dooku, to Obi-Wan, then back again. He kept his mouth shut; this was certainly a question only one of them was truly qualified to answer. 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, then sat up even straighter than he already was. “Yes, well, upon joining the Republic you would be provided with a patrol force to aid in planetary defense. If attacked, we would come to your aid immediately.” 

“If attacked?” Dooku asked, his brow furrowing. “So the Republic takes a reactionary approach to the Confederacy rather than a proactive one?” 

Anakin could feel the wave of embarrassment radiate off his teacher as Obi-Wan fumbled his words. “Ah, well—”

“It is my understanding that each member world is expected to provide assets to the Defense Force in return for full military support,” Dooku continued, not allowing Obi-Wan to finish speaking. “What can Serenno possibly offer? Our exports are luxury items. We make no weapons, ships, or armor.” 

_ The mining droids,  _ Anakin heard Obi-Wan’s voice say—though it wasn’t audible, instead seeming to float across his mind. He followed the floating words to their destination—his master was mentally speaking to Qui-Gon.  _ They can be retrofitted for battle. You say it, he’ll take it better if it comes from you. _

With no acknowledgement that she had heard Obi-Wan’s instructions, Qui-Gon joined the conversation. “Serenno’s mining droids could be retrofitted to function as combat mechs. The Republic would assist with the conversion, of course.” 

Dooku closed his eyes and placed a clenched fist over his mouth, lowering his head slightly. He spoke in a near whisper. “My people are prepared to help the war effort, but we will not lose sight of who we are in the process. I cannot ask our droidsmiths to make weapons of destruction.” He opened his eyes and leveled his gaze at Qui-Gon, then slowly shook his head. Glancing over his shoulder, the Count of Serenno called back to a pair of guards standing against the throne room’s wall. “Give us the room, would you?”

In perfect unison, every guard in the throne room rapped the handle of their axe against the floor—the resulting  _ thud _ sent a shiver down Anakin’s spine as it resonated throughout the space. The march that followed sent lesser echoes reverberating in kind as the guards’ footfalls clicked against the floor. With a final  _ slam  _ that was somehow both gentle and intense, the door to Dooku’s throne room shut, leaving the five humans at the table the only remaining occupants. 

“If you thought I didn’t sense what you were doing, you are sorely mistaken,” Dooku said. His voice was hauntingly calm—though, for the first time, Anakin could sense the true emotion beneath it. The man was not happy with the Republic representatives before him. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Qui-Gon said— _ Smart for her to talk first,  _ Anakin thought.  _ He’s not gonna take anything from the rest of us.  _

Dooku appeared to ignore his former student, and instead turned to glare at Obi-Wan. “General,” he began. “Why are you here?” He motioned across the table, first indicating Qui-Gon. “Her presence, I can understand. She works for Interplanetary Outreach, and we have a history. But you . . . If the Chancellor wanted a military presence, there are a number of renowned officers. If he wished for a diplomat, there are many of those as well.  So why  _ you _ ?” 

Obi-Wan’s mouth hung slightly open, though Anakin could sense his master had nothing to say. The silence grew, hanging in the air for nearly thirty seconds before someone finally broke it—it was Lorian, who held out a hand apologetically. His face revealed the feelings Anakin could sense; it was as if the Viscount was offended on Obi-Wan’s behalf. 

“Ah, General, I should clarify. Even here on Serenno, we are well aware of your reputation as a skilled negotiator.” 

“But I suspect it is not the chief reason you were selected for this summit,” Dooku cut back in. “Three Jedi Knights sit across the table from a former Jedi Master. Am I to dismiss this as coincidence?” 

Anakin glanced sideways at Obi-Wan. Whether Dooku’s mislabeling of Obi-Wan as a Knight was intentional or not, it appeared Obi-Wan had no desire to correct him. 

“Tell me, General. How close are the Order and the Republic these days? Did the Chancellor select each of you precisely  _ because  _ you are Jedi?”

“I doubt it.” 

The words left Anakin’s mouth almost instinctively, in a near whisper. Evidently he hadn’t said them quietly enough—everyone else in the room now stared at him with varying expressions ranging from extreme curiosity to borderline horror. 

_ Anakin!  _ he heard Obi-Wan’s voice resonate in his mind.  _ Keep quiet.  _

“No,” Dooku said, finally shattering the illusion that the mental conversations of the Jedi had been private. “Let the boy speak.” He fixed his eyes on Anakin. “Tell me, Skywalker. What makes you say this?” 

Anakin felt himself freeze in place—it was the first time since negotiations had begun that the Count had addressed him directly. He turned his head slowly, first eyeing his master before turning to face Dooku. The glance at Obi-Wan had made Anakin hesitate, given him the sense that now was the time to back off. The glance at Dooku told him otherwise. This was the most open and receptive Anakin had seen Dooku since they’d met. Perhaps he’d stumbled upon a chance to break down whatever barriers the Count had put up. 

“I’ve . . . spent some time with Chancellor Palpatine,” Anakin began, drawing out his speech as he carefully chose each word. “He’s made it quite clear he’s no friend of the Jedi Order.” As he spoke, Anakin watched Dooku’s face carefully. When he paused, the Count’s eyes seemed to light up for the briefest of moments.  _ Might as well go all in,  _ Anakin thought to himself. 

“He doesn’t know that any of us are Jedi. If he did . . . well, I’d be shocked if that’s why we were chosen to do this. Palpatine considers the Order misguided at best, and dangerous at worst.”

“I see,” Dooku said, leaning back gently in his chair and stroking his chin. “Very interesting.” 

Anakin risked a sideways glance at Obi-Wan; the Jedi Master was covering his mouth with one hand, the other was clenched into a fist. 

“Count Dooku?” Obi-Wan said, his voice slightly shaky, “could we perhaps take a short break?” He turned to look down the table at Anakin and Qui-Gon. “We need to take some time to prepare for the next stage of negotiations.”

“Of course,” Dooku replied, lowering his head in a single nodding motion. Anakin wasn’t certain of it, but he couldn’t shake the sense that the Count was somehow calmer than he had been only moments before. As Serenno’s ruler rose to his feet—followed closely by the rest of the table’s occupants—he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Take all the time you need.”

 

* * *

  
  


Anakin stood inches away from the window, watching speeders and buildings alike lazily drift by as sunset hung over Stratum Apolune. He’d ducked into a side room in the palace complex, one that seemed to function as some sort of sitting room or lounge—a fireplace was bracketed by two plush chairs, and bookshelves lined one wall. 

A small liquor cabinet sat beneath the window, and Anakin had fixed himself a drink—he’d made sure to grab a bottle he recognized, one he knew not to be too expensive. It may have technically been mid-morning, but the endlessly setting sun made drinking alcohol feel acceptable. Besides, he knew he needed a drink in advance of the inevitable dressing down from Obi-Wan. 

As if on cue, he heard the door behind him creak open, then slowly click shut. Closing his eyes, Anakin threw back the rest of the liquor in the glass and gently set it down on the cabinet. He then slowly turned to face the new arrival—a thoroughly irritated Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” 

_ Well,  _ Anakin thought, wincing as if to brace against the oncoming verbal onslaught.  _ This is off to a great start. _

“Badmouthing the Jedi Order in front of our host? What has gotten into you? How could you  _ possibly  _ think that was a good idea?” Though Obi-Wan kept his voice low, he paced as he berated his student, wildly gesticulating with his arms. 

The frustration radiating off Anakin’s teacher fed his own anger; instead of keeping quiet, the younger Jedi snapped back. “He liked it a hell of a lot more than your mining droid thing!” 

Obi-Wan whipped his head around to glare at Anakin, eyes wide. “Excuse me?” 

“I may not be Kenobi the Negotiator, but even I could see we were getting nowhere in there,” Anakin hissed. “What was I thinking? I was thinking Dooku left the Jedi Order. I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’d  _ like  _ the idea that Palpatine isn’t all that into us.” He paused, took a deep breath, and gritted his teeth. “Hell, I’d think  _ you  _ would like that.”

“What?”

“Admit it. You can’t  _ stand  _ that I spend time alone with Palpatine. You’re always implying I should keep my distance. Then, when do I distance myself from the guy, you jump down my throat. Which one is it?” 

The Jedi Master ceased his pacing. Shrugging, he heaved himself into one of the lounge chairs with a great sigh. 

“Yeah,” Anakin said with a snort. “That’s what I thought.” 

Obi-Wan reached up with one hand to rub his temples. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Anakin cut back in before he got a word out. 

“I had an interesting talk with Qui-Gon last night, you know. She’s pretty sure Dooku left the Order because he didn’t want to be a Jedi and a powerful political figure at the same time.”

“Ridding himself of potentially conflicting loyalties. That’s wise,” Obi-Wan said, nodding slowly.

Anakin took a deep breath, then strode over to the chair beside Obi-Wan’s and gently sat down in it. Dialing back the harshness in his voice, he leaned in toward his master. “If it’s wise, why aren’t we doing it?”

Obi-Wan chuckled slightly, but the humor quickly disappeared from his face—replaced instead by a somber glance away from Anakin. “You’re referring to my position as a general?”

“I mean, it’s not just you. There are other Jedi in the Defense Force, right? Other Jedi besides Qui-Gon that work for the government? If it’s so wise to distance ourselves like Dooku did, why don’t we?” 

Leaning in to match Anakin’s pose, Obi-Wan replied, “I’ll admit, it makes me uneasy sometimes. We’re too intertwined with the Republic, and it was never supposed to be this way. We were supposed to be independent guardians. But we can’t stop now.

“Look at Dooku. He left the Order and his Republic citizenship behind to rule Serenno, and now he’s faced with a threat his planet can’t handle alone. For the Order to leave the Republic in the middle of the war . . . we’d be abandoning everyone when they need us most.” 

“So what do we do?” 

Obi-Wan frowned. “I can’t pretend to have all the answers, Anakin. We just have to try to win this war. Then we can work to . . . untangle the Jedi Order from the Republic.”

“It’s funny,” Anakin said with an uneasy laugh. “Palpatine would say he’s trying to do the same thing. Win the war, then fix everything else.” 

“Yes, well,” the Jedi Master replied, running a hand through his hair and grimacing, “perhaps Palpatine’s motives are better than I give him credit for. But Anakin”—he reached a hand out, grasping the flesh arm of his student—”we must be careful. You may have been right about us winning Dooku over, but I’m not sure it’s safe to stoke anti-Jedi sentiment within him. We’re already dealing with a chancellor who’s not fond of us. If Dooku joins the Republic, we don’t want him to speak up as another prominent voice against the Jedi.”

 “I think they share the same concerns, Master,” Anakin replied. “We can’t just wave a hand in the air and erase their worries. We have to prove—to Dooku and the Chancellor—that the Jedi aren’t as bad as they think we are.” 

“We can start by helping the Republic win a war, my friend,” Obi-Wan said, leveraging one arm against the lounge chair and rising to his feet with a grunt. “After that, we can bring our concerns before the rest of the Order.”

He strode toward the room’s doorway, then paused and turned back to face Anakin. “I’m glad you’re one of us, Anakin. I just want you to know that you’re making a difference. Both in the galaxy and in the Jedi Order.” With that, he pushed the door open and disappeared from the room. 

Anakin slouched down in his chair and frowned. It was nice to hear those words from Obi-Wan, he had to admit, but believing them was another matter. He could see their actions had made a difference throughout the galaxy, all the way back to the first few days they’d known each other. But making a difference in the Jedi Order? 

_ Easier said than done,  _ he thought, frowning. Hauling himself to his feet, Anakin Skywalker followed in his master’s footsteps and made his way for the door.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES:** _ **ATLAS _-CLASS BAROTRAUMA RESISTANT MINING DROID_**

The moon of Serenno’s chief export is the precious metal extracted from its surface, which is found deep below a high pressure atmosphere. To facilitate the harvest of this metal, the people of Serenno have constructed special pressure-resistant mining droids. 

These precisely crafted machines—which take the shape of a stocky humanoid figure—were not always autonomous. Originally, a central compartment allowed a driver to operate the mech on Serenno’s surface. In the interest of safety, the driver compartments are now fitted with droid brains, permitting the mech to journey to the surface on its own. 

Though the metals mined by these droids are the primary export of Serenno, the droids themselves are also a sought-after commodity. Each is built by hand over a period of several months by master crafters known as droidsmiths, and thus commands a hefty price. Away from the world of Serenno, these pressure-resistant droids are used for everything from deep-sea repair work to hazardous environment research. 


	25. New Plan

Bail risked a quick glance around the main room of the hotel suite. All eyes were on Padmé now, and his chief of security seemed to be enjoying the new attention. Her eyes had brightened, and as she spoke she gestured enthusiastically with both hands. Bail couldn’t help but smile; it was fun watching her do the thing she did best—scheming.

“When Ellis and I duplicated all these files,” she began, sweeping an arm wide to indicate the dining table covered by a mound of loose papers, “there was this librarian helping us. The Twi’lek, remember?” Padmé shot a glance at Ellis and cocked her head to the side in time with the question. “She was, shall we say, rather chatty.” 

“That’s an understatement,” the Clawdite muttered, leaning back in her chair and rolling her eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be quiet in a library; she wouldn’t stop running her mouth.” 

Padmé waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, while we were feeding documents to the copy machine, she said something about how we were lucky Palpatine had moved on to galactic government, because if he were still here on Naboo his administrative records would be in ‘the vault.’ Maybe that vault is where we need to look.” 

Bail’s heart sank, and it felt as though the air were sucked out of the room. Everyone looked entirely disappointed with Padmé’s idea, save two people. Mace Windu’s expression was his default: stony and unreadable. Padmé seemed confused at the negative reception. 

“Yeah, pack it up, we’re done here,” grumbled Kazan, leaning forward and placing his head in his hands. Ellis reached forward and snatched a datapad off the table, poking at it halfheartedly with a claw. 

Padmé stopped her excited pacing, planting her weight on one foot and crossing her arms. “Okay, I guess I’m out of the loop here. What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong,” Ellis said, “is  _ that.”  _ The Clawdite threw the datapad across the table—it skittered through the stacks of paper, coming to a stop in front of Padmé. The security chief leaned down to stare at the display as Ellis jabbed a finger at it. “Your ‘vault’ is a highly secure Republic facility.” 

“‘Subterranean Long-term Storage Archive?” Padmé said, drawing out the words on the datapad as if they were foreign to her. 

Bail cleared his throat, sitting up slightly to join the conversation. “It’s a branch of the Republic’s archival department. The Republic constructs the vaults, the planetary government maintains them. This one’s jointly controlled by Theed Palace and the university.” 

“Okay, so we’re sneaking in to some underground storage room,” Padmé said with a shrug. “No biggie.” 

Bail shook his head. “Come on, Padmé. You were a con artist, not a bank robber. This is  out of our league.”

The look that crossed his security chief’s face gave Bail both a sense of uneasiness and intense curiosity—it was as if the woman were trying not to raise her eyebrows. “Wait.  _ Have _ you robbed a bank before?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Well my point still stands. This is leagues beyond that. The equivalent vault on Coruscant is one of the most well-guarded places in the capital district. We’re not just going to waltz into this vault in the next few days.”

“There’s no way this one is as well guarded as the one on Coruscant,” she shot back. “Let me do a little digging and see if it’s feasible. If we can get in there, we can probably find whatever we’re looking for.”

The uneasiness in Bail’s stomach grew as he considered the idea. He couldn’t deny that he had been open to venturing into a legal gray area from the moment they had started this trip—even though he never would’ve said so to anyone. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was too risky. 

“Absolutely not,” he said with a shake of his head. “I can’t sign off on something like this. These vaults are massive facilities. Hundreds of shelves. We aren’t just going to break into one so we can ‘probably’ find useful information. Without a concrete plan, a specific  _ thing  _ to look for—”

“I might be able to help with that.” 

All eyes turned to face the source of the interruption. The Jedi, Windu, had stepped closer to the circle of conversation. He looked decidedly less grumpy than Bail had come to expect from his limited interaction with the man, as if his newfound usefulness had somehow invigorated him. 

Silence filled the room for several moments before Padmé nodded and said, “Go on.” 

“It’s like your librarian said: current government officials still have their records sealed. If Palpatine is doing anything shady, he’s not gonna do it himself. He’s gonna have a fall guy.” 

“The Weequay to his Hutt,” Padmé mumbled in apparent reference to Windu’s earlier story. 

“Exactly,” the Jedi said with a nod. “Just so happens I spent the day finding out who that might be.” He moved toward the table, shuffling through the stack of papers until he extracted one containing a photo. Bail didn’t recognize most of the people depicted in it, but one stood out—a slightly younger Palpatine.

“This guy,” Windu continued, poking at the photo to indicate the man beside Palpatine, “served alongside our dear Chancellor in Theed Palace’s Ministry of Agriculture. Then, when Palpatine left to run for Senate, the guy won the governor’s seat for Theed Province.” 

Bail’s eyes instantly widened. “You want to go after the region’s sitting governor?”

“Respectfully, Senator,” Windu snapped, “that’s a step  _ down  _ from what we were doing before.” 

_ He has a point,  _ Bail thought. He raised his hands in mock surrender, then motioned for the man to continue. 

“Now, our two suspects here didn’t just help write policy on agriculture. They’re in the business themselves. Palpatine, of course, has his winery”—the Jedi motioned to one of the wine bottles sitting on the dining table—“but this guy seemed more interested in high-volume production. He owns a farm on the agro-world of Telos IV.” 

“ _ Owned  _ a farm, you mean,” Padmé interrupted. “Telos system got swept up by the CIS months ago.” 

“I meant what I said,” Windu replied, heavily enunciating each word. “The governor sure isn’t acting like someone who lost a huge business. No personal lifestyle cuts. He didn’t buy another farm on some other planet that’s still part of Republic space. Far as I can tell, he’s still spending money keeping up his fields on Telos IV.” 

_ Oh,  _ Bail thought, his eyes growing wide.  _ OH.  _ A glance around the room led Bail to believe that the same realization was dawning on everyone else. 

“You think there’s some record in the vault of what the money’s really going toward?” Ellis asked, leaning forward in apparent renewed interest. 

“Could be,” Windu said with a shrug. “Even if there isn’t, all we have to prove is that he’s somehow maintaining a farm on a Confederate world. Could use that to apply some pressure, get him to flip on the Chancellor.” 

Bail suddenly felt an intense gaze fall on him—Padmé was looking intently at him, a mischievous smile playing across her face. “Well?” she said. “That enough of a ‘specific thing’ for you?” 

He didn’t want to admit that it was—to do so would launch his entourage into an incredibly risky endeavor. But there was a curiosity Bail couldn’t shake. He wanted to know whether Palpatine’s old colleague was funneling money to the CIS. He wanted to find out if it connected back to the Chancellor at all. More than anything else, Bail wanted to stop the man before his rule got entirely out of hand. 

“We’re not prepared for something like this, Padmé,” were the words that left his mouth. “We came here to attend a banquet, not break into a data vault. We just don’t have the tools for the job.” 

A chuckle from one side of the room drew Bail’s attention. It was Windu, an uncharacteristic smile forming at the edges of his mouth. “I might be able to help with that too. The Jedi quartermaster has a fondness for tools that are suited for . . . covert entry. I may have swiped a few things from his office before I left the Temple.” 

“Alrighty then, Windu, you’re with me,” Padmé said as she swiped a datapad off the dining table. “I want to know what sort of gear we’re working with.” She spun on a heel and made for one of the offices off the suite’s center room, a renewed vigor in her step. The Jedi wordlessly followed her. 

As the office door shut behind them with a satisfying  _ click _ , Bail could practically feel the awkward tension in the main room. A muffled cough from Raymus, a creak from Kazan’s chair, and the gentle  _ whir  _ of droid servomotors all filled the space. 

Finally, the silence was shattered as Ellis leaned forward and plucked a wine bottle off the table. “Drink, anyone?”

 

* * *

  
  


Breathing deeply, Padmé placed a palm squarely on the office door and pushed against it. The  wooden slab slid aside with a gentle  _ swish _ , revealing the hotel suite’s main living room. 

The mood of the space was noticeably different from when she’d left it. Bail still sat at the table—he’d pushed aside the layer of scattered papers enough to plant both elbows squarely on the surface, and had propped his chin on his clasped together hands. The senator’s eyes were half closed, though they fluttered open in time with the office door. 

The room’s other occupants were scattered about. Liz, currently in one of her good moods, was standing quietly in the corner. Kazan had stretched himself out across one of the couches, while Raymus and Ellis shared another couch—and another bottle of wine between them, which Padmé was certain was not their first of the night. Upon making eye contact with the Clawdite, Padmé was met with a slight eye roll.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. 

The answer came not from Ellis, but from the pilot seated beside her. “We had a little bet going about how long you’d be in there,” Raymus said. Chuckling, he shot a sideways grin at Ellis. “Korven owes me thirty credits, she thought it’d take you three hours.” 

“Damn, Ellis, give me a little credit,” Padmé laughed. 

“Thirty more minutes and she’d have won,” Bail muttered, tapping at the chronometer strapped to his wrist. “Please tell me you’ve come up with something.” 

“I think we have,” Padmé replied, nodding confidently. Glancing behind her, she locked eyes with Windu, who was leaning against the doorframe of the office they’d just emerged from. The Jedi narrowed his eyes—then, with a slight grunt, he heaved himself away from the doorframe and trudged over to stand beside her. 

Leaning down to place both hands on the dining table, Padmé swept her gaze across each of the room’s occupants. Clearing her throat, she rose again to a standing position. “The Subterranean Long-term Storage Archive is a network of secure underground vaults commissioned by the Galactic Republic Archives Administration.  _ This . . .  _ is SLS Three.” 

She made a sweeping motion with her right hand, and the Jedi standing beside her tossed a palm-sized metal disk onto the center of the dining table. Out of it cascaded a brilliant flare of cool blue light—at first a scattered glow, the illumination quickly coalesced into a wireframe projection of two buildings. One bore the distinct outline of Theed Palace. 

Padmé gestured beneath the hovering images of the buildings. “The facility itself is underground, situated between the central structure of the palace and the main hall of the university. It can be accessed from either building via a sub-basement.”

Kazan let out a gruff cough. “The palace sub-basement isn’t open to the public.” 

“Neither is the university’s,” Bail chimed in. 

Padmé took a step back from the table, waving a dismissive hand. “I know, but that’s not really the hard part. We should be able to get down to the vault lobby easily enough. Once we’re there, things get tricky. See, this vault isn’t called SLS Three because it was the third one to be built. They called it that because it was the first to use three factor authentication.”

She spun on a heel, pacing as she talked. “The other SLS vaults—Coruscant, Corellia, Kuat, and so on—used to all be secured by a huge number of armed guards. Naboo wanted a more subtle approach. They didn’t feel like posting a huge military complement right outside a school and the Queen’s residence, so the security really starts with the vault lobby.

“When you enter, you’re greeted by one of two things: during office hours, there’s a woman who sits at this reception desk. She can let people into the vault if they don’t normally have access, but she accompanies them the whole way. Not really ideal for our circumstances. During off-hours, a protocol droid sits at the desk. We’ll want to go when he’s there.”

Bail let out a slight cough and gingerly raised his hand. “Pardon my ignorance, but . . . we do have a Jedi with us.” He turned to glance at Windu. “Couldn’t you just do that mind thing? Convince this receptionist to let us in the vault and then look the other way?” 

Windu chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got the wrong Jedi for that. Kenobi may be good at mind tricks, but they’re not really my thing. Last time I tried it on someone, they passed out and woke up with a nasty headache. Came on too strong, I guess.” 

Padmé waved a hand to interrupt the exchange, stepping forward slightly to stand between Windu and Bail. “It’s fine. The droid won’t pay us any mind if we act like we belong. At the back of this lobby is the first of three vault doors.”

“Three doors,” Ellis mumbled, swirling her wine glass in one hand. “Three factor authentication. I’m assuming there’s a connection there.” 

“Indeed.” Padmé nodded approvingly. “Three doors, one after the other. Only one can be open at a time. Each has a different security method. One of the three factors: something you know, something you have, and something you are. 

“The first door is secured by something you know: a six-digit passcode that is changed at the beginning of every week. The keypad could probably be bypassed with a security spike, but if the protocol droid sees us do that we’re in trouble. So we’ll need to get that passcode.”

“You say that like it’ll be easy,” Raymus groaned, slouching further down in his spot on the couch.

A knowing smile crossed Padmé’s face as she resumed her pacing. “Compared to what’s next, it will be easy. The next door is secured by something you have: a keycard. They’re issued to a handful of security personnel, but we can’t just steal one.”

“Why not?” Kazan asked—the grizzled bodyguard was still laying across one of the room’s couches, and was staring up at the ceiling rather than watching Padmé. 

“If a staff member reports their keycard is missing, every single card in circulation is deactivated, and everybody is issued new ones. If we stole a card, it’d be useless within the hour.” 

“Padmé.” Bail stretched out the name, as if he were scolding a child. “This sounds impossible.”

“The third door,” she continued, ignoring her boss entirely, “is secured by something you are. There’s a biometric lock on it. A handprint scanner, to be precise.” 

Raymus let out a snort and shot a sideways glance at the Clawdite sitting next to him. “Huh. We just had to bring along a shapeshifter who can’t actually shapeshift.” 

“Screw you, Antilles,” Ellis snapped back. “Even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. The best Clawdite shapeshifters can’t mimic fingerprints.” Returning her attention to the pacing security chief, Ellis continued, “I don’t see how this works, Padmé. We can’t bypass a biometric lock.”

“You’re right, we can’t.” The grin on her face grew slightly. “Luckily, we don’t have to. Entering the vault requires all of these security checks, but to  _ leave  _ the vault, you just have to open the door. If we had someone waiting inside for us—”

“No,” a mechanized voice hissed. “Absolutely not.” 

It was Liz, Padmé knew—the droid had been standing silently in the corner, sweeping her blue-eyed gaze across the room. The robot’s optics were now a deep crimson, and focused directly at Padmé. 

Padmé watched as the rest of the room’s occupants glanced with hesitation between the droid and the security chief. Finally, Bail spoke up: “I think I’m missing something. What’s she so upset about?” 

“The idiot wants to stuff me in a damn box!” Liz snapped—then, her eyes shifting blue, she slowly turned to face Bail and bowed slightly at the waist. “Sir.” 

Bail raised an eyebrow and rotated back to look at Padmé. “Is she serious?”

“It’s worked once before. Anakin and I shipped her to this warehouse, then had her sneak out of the shipping crate and open the back door for us.” Padmé shrugged. “If we can find an excuse to have something added to the vault, I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.” 

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Bail said, sitting up slightly and leaning onto the dining table. “You want to figure out a passcode we don’t know, steal a keycard that can’t be stolen, and get your droid submitted into the Republic Archives, then break into the vault . . . all before the University of Theed’s fundraising banquet.” 

“Oh, no,” Padmé said with a grin. “Not before the banquet.  _ During  _ it.”

 

* * *

 

A wave of competing emotions washed over Bail Organa. He had listened as Padmé had outlined her crazy plan, forced himself to entertain the idea of letting his staff break in to a Republic archival vault, but this added wrinkle of doing so in the middle of a university event was too much. He placed his palms squarely on the dining table and rose to his feet. 

“Padmé, no. That’s insane. There will be hundreds of people directly above the vault in the university’s main hall. Security presence at the palace and the university will be doubled. Tripled, maybe. It’s an all hands on deck event.” 

“Exactly,” she replied, leveling a pointed finger at him. “That’s our in.” 

“Amidala and I will enter dressed in security uniforms,” Mace Windu said, joining the conversation. “If any of the security staff don’t recognize us, we can say we work opposite shifts, or were hired just for this event. Plenty of ways to deflect suspicion, and the uniforms will get us into the sub-basement.” 

“The banquet is the perfect distraction, Bail,” Padmé said. “Nobody’s going to be thinking about what’s going on in the vault below. More importantly, nobody’s going to think you had anything to do with the robbery.” 

Bail gently lowered himself back into his chair. As he stroked his beard with one hand and rapped his knuckles against the table with the other, his thoughts briefly drifted off to nowhere. 

They were quickly pulled back as Padmé sat down beside him, leaning in and speaking in a hushed and somber tone. “Bail, I’m not doing this lightly. Palpatine is out there annexing planets. He might be dragging out a galactic war just for the sake of political power. Someone has to stop him. We’ve got a chance to.” 

He let out a long sigh. “I know.” 

“We’ve got a few kinks to work out, I’ll admit,” she continued, “but I’m confident we can pull this off. Are you in?” 

Closing his eyes, the senator nodded slowly. After a moment of silence, he spoke: “As long as everyone else is on board, of course.” He glanced around the room, briefly locking eyes with each member of his crew. Padmé and the Jedi were the most confident, of course, and the droid’s blue-eyed expression was unreadable. In Ellis he saw excitement mixed with trepidation. Raymus seemed only nervous, but as Bail met his gaze the pilot shot him a snappy nod. Even Kazan, who Bail had expected resistance from, nodded in the affirmative—it was perhaps a wearier affirmation than the others, but still seemed to carry the same resolve. 

Bail looked back at Padmé. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s do it.” 

A grin bigger than any of her previous grins grew across Padmé’s face. “Let’s rob the Republic Archives.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: GALACTIC REPUBLIC ARCHIVES ADMINISTRATION** _

Though the secession conflict prior to the Ruusan Reformation ended without war, Chancellor Tyria Ruusan publicly expressed a concern that, should a war occur, the history of the many species of the Republic could easily be lost. Founded by Chancellor Ruusan in the years following the Reformation, the Galactic Republic Archives Administration is responsible for the collection, cataloguing, storage and preservation of historical records of the Republic. 

The Administration works to collect recorded history from each world in the Republic and store the records in one of many data archival facilities—the Subterranean Long-term Storage vaults. Several Republic worlds are home to SLS vaults, and each vault houses an identical data server containing a standalone backup of the Republic Archives—if all vaults save one were destroyed, the Archives would still remain intact. 

The GRAA also houses physical artifacts and sensitive materials in its vaults—as part of each vault construction agreement, the vault’s “host world” is welcome to use a significant portion of the secure storage shelving found within. The Administration prides itself on the security of these facilities. They are inaccessible to any unauthorized persons, and are virtually indestructible, enveloped in an energy shield designed to withstand even direct orbital bombardment. 


	26. Unlocking Doors

Obi-Wan knew that, were he to reach into Dooku’s mind, the Count would be able to sense it. It would be a breach of confidence, invasive in the extreme, and an abuse of his powers. Dooku would rightly be offended, perhaps more than that.

And yet the temptation kept itching at the back of his brain— _ Just a little nudge, just to be able to see what he’s thinking, to latch onto something you can use.  _ He kept tamping down the little voice, and then worrying that Dooku would be able to sense what  _ he _ was thinking and collapse the whole charade, all the while looking directly at the head of state and nodding pleasantly and doing his best to answer questions about things like trade and sovereignty.

Day one of negotiations had deflated not long after he’d pulled Anakin out of the room. All parties had been frustrated, and the Jedi question, in addition to being impossible to discuss in front of most of Dooku’s staff, was impossible to answer. The best explanation Obi-Wan could think of was,  _ Maybe the Force brought us here for just this purpose,  _ but it sounded so woefully trite that he flinched even thinking it.

And so, they’d parted with the question of Serenno’s potential contributions to the Defense Force unresolved and everyone in a less-than-hopeful mood.

Now, they were two hours into the second day’s summit and had spent most of that time dancing around the main point. Obi-Wan, while he couldn’t read Dooku, could sense the simultaneous boredom and wariness of almost everyone else in the room—they knew nothing that was being said actually mattered, and were dreading the moment when important things actually came up again.

_ It’s family dinner with Owen and Beru all over again,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Fencing with verbal asides, no one saying what they really mean besides the grumpiest member of the table— _

_ Wait. _

_ Owen. _

“General Kenobi? Are you listening to me?”

The subtly affronted tone of Dooku’s voice brought Obi-Wan the belated realization that he’d stopped paying attention for the last several moments, but he made no effort to apologize. Instead, he offered up a quiet  _ Thank you _ to the Force and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Count, but to return to the matter of Serenno’s contributions to the war effort—”

From either side of the general arose alarm and something like vague horror—he shot quick glances to his left and right and saw Anakin and Qui-Gon staring at him.  _ What?  _ he whispered to them through the Force.  _ It’s all fine and dandy when  _ you’re  _ blunt, but when I do it you lose your minds? _

When Dooku raised his voice to cut Obi-Wan off, it was solid ice. “General Kenobi, my word on that matter was final. Our mining droids will not be refitted into weapons of war. Despite your assurances to the contrary when your warship approached our city, I find myself wondering if the only reason you’re here isn’t—”

“Pardon me, Count.” As Dooku’s eyes widened at the double interruption, Obi-Wan launched himself forward, grasping the thread and tugging on it before it could be whipped from his grasp. “I’m sure you weren’t aware of this, but I had a sister once. Alma, her name was.”

Counting on the hope that Dooku would be too distracted by this rudeness to be monitoring the use of the Force around him, the general risked a quick probe into his mind. Swirling at the top was annoyance at this breach of politeness, but underneath was genuine intrigue. None of it came through in the older man’s voice when he said stiffly, “No, I was not aware,” but its presence beneath was enough for the Jedi. He continued.

“Yes, she was older than me—almost my surrogate mother, in a sense, after our parents died when I was young. I loved her very much. You’re aware, I’m sure, Count, that Alderaan is one of the Republic’s chief weapons manufacturers?”

Dooku’s brow rose by another degree at this second lurch into another topic, but it seemed he had decided to play along; his reply was simply, “You’re correct, General.”

_ What the hell are you— _ he felt Anakin launch at him, and batted it away as though it were a blaster bolt. “Well, while I was attending . . . the Academy, on a scholarship,” he said, choosing the words carefully, “she started work at a turbolaser plant. They’re supposed to be fully mechanized due to the risks, but the regulations in place are weak, and so that happens rather often. Demand is always going up—even moreso now, with the war—and there isn’t necessarily time to program machines perfectly to do the job. That’s the official line, anyway.”

Folding his hands together and leaning just a touch further in, Obi-Wan continued. “About ten years ago, my sister died. She’d developed cancerous tumors as a result of working too close to unshielded equipment, and there was nothing that could be done.”

He let this hang in the air. Next to Dooku, Lorian cast his eyes down at the table; Dooku himself said, in a surprisingly earnest manner, “I’m so sorry, General.”

“Thank you.” Once again, the general paused, searching for just the right words.  _ You’ve guided me this far, _ he thought to the Force,  _ just a bit more, please. _

“Believe me, Count, I completely understand your antipathy toward turning your technology into killing machines. Regardless of appearances”—he cast his eyes up and out through one of the stained-glass windows, though the  _ Coelacanth _ was no longer hovering outside it, safely returned to orbit as instructed—“I struggle with it myself. But I think I may have hit upon a possible solution.

“What if we were to co-opt your mining droids to serve not as weapons themselves, but as manufacturers? Working in turbolaser plants, handling machinery that’s unsafe for organic contact. They’ve been created to survive under conditions that would instantly kill any living being—intense gravity rather than radiation, true, but nevertheless.”

Once again, he leaned in across the table, holding Dooku’s gaze. “The droids you provide would be doing a double good. The weapons they make will help to save possible millions of people from the Confederacy’s terror. And they themselves will help to prevent people like my sister from dying needlessly.”

He forced himself to hold his senses in check, to refrain from touching Dooku’s feelings to see if this had done anything to win him over. Instead, he watched the Count sit in silence, pondering. When he glanced briefly at Qui-Gon, she wore a smaller, gentler version of her trademark smirk.  _ If that doesn’t do it, nothing will,  _ she thought to him.

At his left, Anakin looked . . . troubled. Frowning, Obi-Wan was about to attempt to find out why when Dooku spoke.

“You’ve given me much to consider, General,” said the Count, his voice remarkably free of its usual iron. “Much to consider indeed. I believe I may have misjudged you, and for that you have my apology.”

Relief burst in Obi-Wan’s chest and flooded through him like a membrane filled with water. Nodding gratefully, he said, “And you in turn have mine for any misunderstandings in these last few days. Am I to understand that this means—”

“It means,” Dooku cautioned, raising his right hand slightly, “that I am willing to consider such a proposition, where I was not before. There are still, of course, other issues to discuss—questions of sovereignty most specifically.”

As Obi-Wan again nodded, he felt some of his relief trickle into disappointment. And yet, this was about as good as he could have hoped for. The Force didn’t often work outright miracles when it came to this sort of thing—there was never a chance Dooku would have signed the moon over then and there. “Naturally,” he said aloud. “I’ll do my best to answer them.”

Indeed he did, for the next three hours. And no matter how dull the details got, by the end of things the general was feeling almost chipper.

_ There’s a door now. It’s not open, but it’s not locked. _

 

* * *

 

“I was looking forward to never, ever having to wear one of these again,” Anakin muttered to Obi-Wan, tugging at the stiff collar of his dress uniform in an effort to give his throat a little room. He didn’t mention that the last time he’d worn it had been dinner with the Chancellor; this probably wasn’t the best time.

Fiddling with a button on his own uniform, Obi-Wan snorted. “Yes, you’d rather just be wearing the regular one and getting shot at.”

“Hey, I’m  _ accustomed _ to getting shot at. I’ve had years of practice. Fancy balls, on the other hand . . . yeah, no.”

“Well,” his master replied, “if it’s any comfort, I can’t dance any better than you can.”

“What, the Temple didn’t offer lessons?”

Chuckling, his master reached finished adjusting his uniform.  “Believe it or not, no.”

The two lapsed into a silent lull. Anakin strode over to the bookshelf in the corner of Obi-Wan’s room, picked up a title, flipped through its pages; poetry, it looked like. Grimacing slightly, he restored it to its position. “Too bad they couldn’t have installed holonet screens in here.” He turned back to Obi-Wan. “So, you think we’ll be able to lock things down tomorrow?”

“Oh, who knows. I doubt anything we come to will be final, just a preliminary arrangement.”

“Still, though, you were a _ maz _ ing in there.”

Though his master said nothing, Anakin could feel his satisfaction at the compliment. “You know,” he continued, “I’m sorry about your sister. I remember you mentioning her back when we were in the refugee camp, but I didn’t know she . . . that that was how she died. That’s rough.”

“It was a long time ago,” was all Obi-Wan said in reply. Then, after a few moments, “You know, I wonder if maybe Dooku doesn’t have the right idea in some aspects of his thinking.”

_ There  _ was something Anakin hadn’t expected to be hearing. “What do you mean?”

“Just that, once the war is over, it might be good to right some wrongs that don’t involve getting people under us killed.”

Anakin snorted. “The Jedi go after factory owners on Alderaan or something?”

“Is it such a terrible idea?” Stroking at his beard with one hand, the general said, “My feelings on the issue regardless, Palpatine is centralizing the Defense Force, trying to restructure it as a galaxy-wide taskforce. Once the war is over, they’ll have things well in hand as far as tracking down the more violent evildoers in the galaxy. Which leaves us to do . . . something else.”

It was a perfectly harmless train of thought, so Anakin wondered why something like fear came over him as Obi-Wan said it. Laughing a little nervously, he replied, “Well, if you wanna become a union lawyer or something I’m sure you’d be good at it, but I’d be no good as a paralegal.”

“It’s funny to hear you say that, you know. I remember when using the Force solely in battle was so terrifying to you that you wanted to get rid of it.”

There was no accusation in his master’s voice—simply curiosity—and yet Anakin found himself feeling defensive. “I mean, you’re glad I changed my mind, right?”

“Of course. But my master liked to say that the Jedi use the Force for knowledge and defense, never attack. I feel as though we’ve forgotten that in the last few years.”

_ But you don’t understand,  _ he almost said,  _ I’m  _ good _ at what we’re doing. I wish you and Qui-Gon would stop bringing up how I felt two years ago.  _ Realizing how petulant that would sound, he dropped it.

The little voice in the back of his head from yesterday spoke up again.  _ Isn’t that what you were worried about, though? That it would feel so good you wouldn’t be able to stop once you got started? _

_ Not the same damn thing. I was worried about hurting people. The Jedi are trying to save people. Look at how many planets Obi-Wan and I’ve saved. _

Anakin found himself wishing he’d never come here—that, as good as it was to see Qui-Gon again, she and Obi-Wan had gone to Serenno alone. He didn’t like the questions that were constantly nagging at him since they’d landed.

“Are you gentlemen decent?” someone called from outside the door.  _ Speak of the devil. _

“Yes, come in,” Obi-Wan said. A moment later, the door slid open.

“Woah,” was all Anakin could say.

Their companion’s evening wear wasn’t too different from her normal attire—a long, black coat atop a black vest, complete with black leather boots—but it was cut differently, built for form as well as function. She’d applied what looked like a bit of makeup as well, accentuating the edges of her face. She looked like nothing so much as a statue come to life, all cool exterior and angles. Then she broke into a grin, collapsing the impression. “Too much?”

Obi-Wan, eyes noticeably wider than normal, smiled, and Anakin remembered Padmé’s crack about whether the two had been an item once. He still doubted it was true, but the look on his master’s face had decreased the doubt just a little. “You look lovely.”

“The walking stick cramps my style, but it’ll have to do. You boys don’t look too bad yourselves.”

“Trust me,” Anakin groused, “I wish I were wearing anything else.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it.” Glancing at the chronometer on her wrist, Qui-Gon said, “I believe we have about ten minutes to get over to the main event. Dooku and Lorian will be presenting us to the crowd, it’d be bad if we missed that.” She smiled and extended her arms. “Escort a lady to a ball?”

Slipping his arm through hers, Anakin felt a pang of guilt at his wishes of just a few minutes ago.  _ She’s great. Qui-Gon’s great. I just need to get my mind off this crap. Nothing better for that than a few hours of boring socializing. _

 

* * *

 

It was almost endearing how utterly Anakin had failed to comb his hair, Qui-Gon thought to herself as she and her companions strolled down the hall toward the site of the festivities. He and Obi-Wan were almost a comedy duo in how different they were; if they hadn’t been Jedi, they could have been working an improv act.

She could sense the boy’s inner turmoil, though he was doing his best to tamp it down. It had been there since yesterday at least. A lesser version was brewing within Obi-Wan, though it wasn’t nearly as easy to sense—he was the type, she knew, to push things away by accepting that “the will of the Force” would make things right.

_ Well, boys, you aren’t the only ones, _ she thought, careful to keep the sentiment to herself.

When she’d spoken to Anakin on the balcony yesterday, it hadn’t been for entirely selfless purposes. She’d wanted to air some of the things that had been brewing in her own head—not just since landing on Serenno, but for a while.

It was the height of hypocrisy, she supposed, to be worried about this sort of thing when she had willingly taken on this mission for the sake of an adventure. But the fact that the other two were starting to have concerns about how tightly knit their destinies and that of the Republic had become was reassuring. If dear old Obi-Wan, whose loyalty to a Chancellor had started a war, was starting to have doubts about the system, anything was possible.

At any rate, she hadn’t been lying to Anakin. She’d prefer to reform things from inside if at all possible. And if they ended up getting Dooku on their side, who knew?

_ And there’s the man himself,  _ she thought as the three of them drew close to the ballroom exterior.

Dooku had not changed from his usual caped wardrobe, but the chain at his neck was a bright silver rather than its usual matte. Lorian, at his side, wore an outfit not too dissimilar to Anakin and Obi-Wan’s dress uniforms, though it contained far less starch by the looks of his relaxed posture. The bodyguards to either side of them wore freshly polished armor; Qui-Gon had to suppress a snort.

“Ahh, you all look wonderful,” the Viscount said approvingly as they drew near. “Hopefully the evening is equal to you.”

“You’re too kind,” said Obi-Wan, briefly bowing his head.

“Especially in my case,” said Anakin, in a tone that wasn’t self-deprecation so much as a statement of fact.

“Dooku and I will enter first,” Lorian explained to them, “through these doors. When we’ve made the formal address, the doors behind us will open and you’ll come strolling in. And then . . . well, the evening is yours. Any matters of state can be reserved for tomorrow,” he said with a wink.

“Gotta tell you,” Anakin said, “I think I’d be better at those than I am at dancing.”

“In that case,” Dooku said, with a rare smile, “perhaps you and I can have that conversation we mentioned earlier. It seems an effective means to rescue you from any eager partners.”

Qui-Gon could tell from the sudden pulse of Anakin’s aura that this was  _ not _ what he’d had in mind, but he replied, “Of course,” without any hesitation.

“Ah, one more thing before we enter,” her old master said. He raised his right hand, and one of the bodyguards stepped forward, carrying a small metal box. “I am sure you’ve been carrying certain . . . experimental technology on your persons. I won’t begrudge you that right in most circumstances, but for this evening I request that you remove them from your sleeves and leave them here.”

Her two companions exchanged glances, then stepped forward and lowered their arms, presumably to let metal cylinders slide into the box. Qui-Gon could sense their misgivings at leaving the weapons behind; she recognized the feeling. Going without carrying her lightsaber for the first while after her recovery had felt like she was walking around naked.

When the guard turned to her, she lifted her cane a few inches off the ground. “I’m in no shape to be carrying anything of the kind, fear not.”

Dooku arched an eyebrow, but nodded. Qui-Gon was careful to suppress her relief.

“That’s our cue,” Lorian told them as the doors to the ballroom swept open; beyond him, Qui-Gon could make out an upper landing that presumably extended out above the main floor. The strains of a string section filtered in from the dancing already in progress. “We’ll see you both in a few minutes.”

The two bodyguards followed the royals in, the doors sweeping shut again as soon as they’d crossed the threshold.

“Welp, knowing our luck, something is gonna go horribly in there now that we’re unarmed,” Anakin muttered to the two of them.

“I’m sure,” Qui-Gon said, snorting. “Oh no! The clones have invaded the ballroom!”

“Look at it this way,” Obi-Wan said, a teasing smile forming on his face. “It would save you from dancing.”

“ _ And _ talking to Dooku,” the apprentice added.

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Qui-Gon assured him. “I was his apprentice, after all. He doesn’t let on, but he likes us foot-in-mouth types.”

“Oh yeah, I feel so much better now.”

“Well, enjoy your opportunity to talk to a head of state,” she said, smirking. “ _ I _ am going to dance.”

A few minutes later, the doors once again swept open. Dooku’s voice could be heard from inside, at the tail end of a sentence: “ . . . my pleasure to present to you our emissaries from the Republic.”

“Well, boys,” Qui-Gon said, twirling her cane in one hand, “that’s our cue. Let’s go to a ball.”


	27. Changing Partners

The ballroom stood in deliberate, stunning contrast to the sleek modernism of the rest of Serenno. The walls and floors were not white but a mix of burgundy and gold, with glittering chandeliers hanging over the proceedings. Statues of indeterminate beings towered over the main floor, nearly as tall as the balcony that the Jedi and their hosts stood upon. And while the event may have been exclusive, there were still dozens of people below, species of all kinds staring up at their Republic guests.

Staring down at the applauding onlookers, Anakin mumbled to Obi-Wan, “Kill me.”

If his master heard him, he gave no indication; instead, he lowered himself into a bow, which his apprentice hastily imitated.

From beside him, Dooku raised his hands for silence. “Tonight, however, is not for politics but for culture. I trust all of you shall make our friends from the Republic welcome as we share in our enjoyment of art and companionship together. Thank you.” As another wave of applause arose, the Count turned to Anakin. “Now, young Skywalker, I believe we promised each other a bit of conversation, if you don’t mind waiting a few moments before joining your friends.”

Especially after the talking-to Obi-Wan had given him in the middle of negotiations, the young Jedi wasn’t especially keen on talking to Dooku unsupervised.  _ But,  _ he thought, looking down at the teeming ballroom,  _ lesser of two evils, eh?  _ “Of course not,” he replied, “it’d be my pleasure.”

“Excellent!” replied the Count, a rare smile forming on his face. “Let us find a quieter place to do so, yes?” Beckoning, he swept aside his cape and started toward some kind of antechamber; waving at his two friends, Anakin started after him.

“Oh, you two have no sense of fun,” he heard Qui-Gon call. “Viscount, care to escort a lady to the dance floor?” Grinning, he wondered if she’d have had the audacity to say that were Dooku not already striding out of earshot.

The room Dooku led him to turned out to be some kind of miniature library; at its center was a table and two chairs, while books lined the inside wall. The outer one was a pane of glass, showing off the perpetual near-sunset that lay outside. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many paper books anywhere outside the Temple,” Anakin commented as he and the Count took their seats, the latter’s bodyguards taking up positions outside the door. “They’re all over this moon. Did you bring them with you?”

At this, Dooku chuckled. “Believe it or not, the Jedi do not have a monopoly on wood pulp. Serenno has long appreciated physical texts. The digital can be erased; that which is physical endures.”

“Oh, I know the Jedi aren’t the only ones. When Obi-Wan and Padmé and I were lost in a cave once, we had to use a paper map to try and find our way back. That was an adventure.”

“Padmé?” the Count asked, apparently interested. “Another Jedi?”

Shaking his head, Anakin felt his thoughts stray to wondering what she was doing right now. “My wife. And believe me, she wouldn’t take kindly to being mistaken for one.”

“Curious. For someone who is in the Order, you seem to be acquainted with a great many people who are not pleased with it.”

The Jedi felt his face flush and bit down gently on his tongue.  _ Stupid, remember what Obi-Wan told you.  _ “Oh, it’s not like that.”  _ Like the Chancellor, _ he silently added. “She used to not be a fan, but she’s mostly come around. She just prides herself on being a skeptic.”

“Well, some healthy skepticism is something all factions need. The Order among them.” As Dooku said this, his eyes wandered away from Anakin and toward the deepening blue sky outside. “Not, I suppose, that I should be telling you so.”

“Oh,” he replied, trying to keep himself from sounding overtly hasty, “I don’t mind. Like I said, Padmé talks about it all the time. And Qui-Gon isn’t exactly what you’d call, erm, orthodox.”

Fondness entered the Count’s expression. “No, she certainly is not. It’s been good to see her again.” A few moments passed in silence; then he said, “But we’re getting off track. Had Abbadon is what you were going to tell me about. Tell me, had you already learned how to use the Force before General Kenobi found you? Or was that knowledge discovered during the whole venture?”

And so Anakin told him the tale—meeting in a bar while he and Padmé were trying to con a swoop biker, getting caught up in a chase that left them stranded in a cave system, finding out their new acquaintance was not only a general but a Jedi. And then all the rest of it—trying to escape, running into Qui-Gon, battling a Sith Lord amid a downed ship. “And then,” he concluded, after a good fifteen minutes of mostly monologuing, with Dooku throwing in the occasional question, “I didn’t know what to do for a while. Part of me still wanted to cut myself off from the Force. But Obi-Wan came back, and, well . . . um, here I am.” It was a lame ending; not knowing how to properly cap it off, though, he rambled a bit further, “It’s just lucky I ran into a Jedi. Otherwise I would never have had anyone to teach me how to use it properly.”

“The Force?” Dooku asked. Anakin felt his heart sink a little—he’d thought he was doing a good job of spinning the tale without saying anything stupid, but the Count sounded almost alarmed.

“Um, yeah, I mean—obviously you can  _ use _ it without knowing you’re a Jedi, but I mean like—in terms of a group of people who can show you the way—”

“Young Skywalker,” interrupted the Count. “Do you honestly believe the Jedi are the only organized group dedicated to the study of the Force?”

To be honest, Anakin had never thought about it before. Certainly he’d never heard other groups mentioned around the Temple, but then he’d never heard them discussed anywhere else, either. “I mean, I know there’s the Sith—”

Dooku raised his hand, and the regal power behind the gesture commanded respect. Anakin duly shut the hell up.

Looking directly into the young Jedi’s eyes, Dooku spoke. “Young Skywalker, when I left the Jedi, I had no intention of leaving behind the Force. It is as much a part of who I am as breathing, you understand. I left the Order, as I’m sure your friends have no doubt speculated, in large part because I felt that a group of Force users tied as closely to a governing body as the Jedi are can come to no good. But there are  _ numerous _ other groups who practice communion with the Force and have no such entanglements.”

Anakin stared, then realized Dooku had paused to allow him to ask questions. “I . . . what are they like?”

“There are too many to answer that question.” He gestured out the window to the sky beyond. “You might as well ask me to describe every single cloud that floats above us. But, if I had to name a few . . . the Church of the Force is popular amongst the Outer Rim. The Followers of the Liberating Force split off from it several centuries ago; they’re motivated primarily by social justice, believing that the Force is an instrument to liberate the oppressed and create equality.

“The Choir of the Cosmic Force believes that what we sense of the Force is simply vibrations in a greater music—that every living thing is giving off pieces of a universal song. Their composers have created some absolutely gorgeous music.

“The Nightsisters of Dathomir are a matriarchy who draw upon the dark side to form their bonds—”

“Wait,” Anakin burst in, before he could restrain himself, “a—a whole society based on the dark side? And they’re not tearing each other apart?”

“Ah yes,” Dooku said, “that particular Jedi insistence that the dark side is evil. The Force is about balance, is it not? Between life and death, old and new, light  _ and _ dark. The dark side is passion, yes. Strong emotions, which can  _ without moderation _ lead to evil. But the same can be said of complete passivity, which is what happens when the light is indulged in without moderation as well.”

Cocking his head, Anakin stared back at the Count. The other man’s gaze was perfectly calm—before he realized what he was doing, the Jedi checked the irises and saw not a hint of yellow, as the Zabrak Sith Lord’s had been. “How do you know all this?” he asked.

“After I left the Jedi,” Dooku said, resting his hands calmly on the table, “I was curious. I wanted to keep in communion with the Force, and while the Order is not exactly forthcoming about the beliefs of other sects, I knew they existed. And so I went traveling, seeking out certain groups. In retrospect, I was nothing but a tourist—it was foolish of me. There are things about each of the places I visited that are admirable, but I was an outsider to all of them. To join would have been to foist my presence upon them.” He raised his shoulders in the subtle equivalent of a shrug, his cape rising and falling. “And so, here you find me.”

_ Have you ever used the dark side?  _ Anakin wanted to ask. Instead, he simply said, “Wow. Ah. Wow.”  _ You damned idiot. _

His frustration with himself must have been powerful enough for some of it to catch Dooku—the Count said, “You needn’t apologize for being surprised. As I said, the Jedi do not go out of their way to engage with such ideas. But for you to have no clue—Master Kenobi never spoke to you of these things?”

_ Nope. He never did. _

Dooku sighed softly, suddenly looking a good deal older. “I make no suggestions either way as to how you should feel about the Jedi. Many of them are good people, and I’m sure General Kenobi is among them. But to think theirs is the only view of the Force is as if one were to take the work of one painter and say he was the only person who knew how to use color.”

He rose from the table with this; shoving his chair backward, Anakin followed suit. “But I’ve been keeping you from the party,” said the Count, sounding genuinely apologetic. “How rude of me. Come, let’s rejoin the others.”

As the door swept open and the bodyguards bracketing it stood to either side, Anakin focused on locking his thoughts down, making sure Dooku could sense nothing he was feeling.  _ Don’t pester Obi-Wan about it,  _ he told himself.  _ Wait until later. _

_ He certainly hasn’t bothered pestering  _ you _ about it,  _ the voice within him shot back.

_ Shut up. _

 

* * *

 

“Qui-Gon Jinn? Excuse me, Madame Jinn?”

Turning around as fast as she could—her legs were troubling her a bit tonight, cane or no cane—Qui-Gon caught sight of an Arkanian crossing the ballroom floor, weaving through dancers and conversants, holding something above their head with one hand. Their hair and skin were the same shade of white—one that was bloodless without speaking of decay—and the tips of their ears came to fine points. They were—well, stunning.

And they seemed to be trying to get Qui-Gon’s attention.

Suppressing a smile, the Jedi thought to herself,  _ Haven’t had that happen in a  _ long _ time. _

Lorian, at her side, raised his eyebrows as the Arkanian approached. “Enjoying the evening, Jesmyn?”

The Arkanian’s eyes widened just slightly when they realized who had been accompanying Qui-Gon; then, nodding, they inclined their head in a slight bow. “Greetings, Viscount.” They turned to Qui-Gon, looking at her with eyes the color of flint. “Madame Jinn?”

“Guilty as charged,” replied the Jedi, leaning forward slightly on her cane. The Arkanian looked to be about her age, maybe a few years younger. “And you are?”

“Ah, how rude of me,” said Lorian, still looking a bit bemused but smiling despite it. “Madame Jinn, this is Jesmyn, Palace Droidsmith for Stratum Apolune. Jesmyn, evidently you already know who this is.”

The smooth features of their face hid it well, but Qui-Gon could sense that Jesmyn was a bit reluctant at the prospect of having to explain themselves. “Droidsmith, eh?” she asked, before the silence could grow uncomfortable. “Sounds like a man I know back home on Coruscant. Which droids do you smith, exactly?”

With a barely perceptible nod of silent gratitude, the Arkanian replied, “The divers, mostly—the stresses they undergo down toward crush depth are immense, which means patching them back together is a full-time job.”

“And thanks to Jesmyn’s hard work, we haven’t lost one in several years now,” said Lorian.

“‘Crush depth’ is just the right kind of vivid to give me the creeps.” Qui-Gon gave a mock shudder at this. “Have you ever lost any people down there?”

Opening his mouth to respond, Lorian was no doubt about to launch into a detailed lecture on exactly who’d been lost and how when a serving droid tapped him on the shoulder. “Viscount,” it informed him when he turned around, “Count Dooku is looking for you.”

Nodding, the Viscount excused himself and started off, casting his gaze toward the upper balcony.

Plucking what looked like a hunk of cheese off the platter the server droid held with its right hand, Qui-Gon bit down, wrinkled her nose at the pungency, and swallowed. “I suppose it’s just as well Lorian isn’t here to ask where Serenno manages to get cheese from.”

Jesmyn snorted with surprised laughter. “Yes, the Viscount can be a bit . . . overenthusiastic.”

“Speaking of overenthusiastic, that was quite an entrance into my orbit you just made.”

She’d already begun preparing to wave a hand to dismiss any embarrassment that arose as a result of the crack, but instead Jesmyn simply smirked and said, “Yes, well, I thought a direct approach might save some time.”  _ Now  _ that _ ’s a pleasant surprise.  _ “Forgive me if this is too forward, but when I found out that you had an XT-1580 sitting in orbit and it was cooped up on a Star Destroyer I just had to intervene.”

There  _ was _ a war on, after all, so Qui-Gon supposed her first reaction should have been suspicion at how this person had managed to find out about her personal vehicle sitting onboard a highly secure warship. But it had been  _ so _ long, and the droidsmith was just beautiful enough that she was willing to overlook it.  _ Besides, it would drive Obi-Wan insane that I don’t care. That alone is reason enough to do something. _

Outwardly, she quirked a corner of her mouth just far upward enough that if the Arkanian was looking for it they’d notice the hint of a smile. “Define ‘intervene.’”

They raised a white-skinned hand—wrapped around its index finger was something that looked remarkably like her racing ship’s keys. “Put in a palace request for it to be brought down. Figured it was a waste if you didn’t take it for a little spin while you’re here. After all, what if the talks fall through? Serenno might never see you again.”

The Force had already told her as much, but the inflection Jesmyn placed on their last sentence confirmed it.  _ I am being  _ flirted  _ with. After two years of sitting in the Temple getting stiff. _

“You,” she told the Arkanian, allowing her mouth to curve upward just a little more, “are lucky that I  _ like _ forward people.”

Swinging their hand toward the Jedi, Jesmyn allowed the keyfob to slip off their finger and sail through the air. Relishing the moment before it came, Qui-Gon released her cane with her right hand and snatched the bit of metal from the air, a clear  _ smack _ sounding as it hit her skin. “You’re also lucky I have quick reflexes.”

“Impressive,” Jesmyn replied evenly, their own mouth verging toward a smile. “Then again, I suppose you need those reflexes to pilot the thing.”

“Oh, trust me, out of our little landing party I’m not even the best one behind its wheel.”

This elicited a cocked head. “Did you and the general and Skywalker engage in some joyriding before you left Coruscant?”

_ Ah, damn, I’ve never met them before this trip.  _ Rather than answering the question, Qui-Gon let her cane angle sharply forward, carrying her closer to her new acquaintance. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, throwing a glance in the direction of the lengthy bar several paces behind them.

The Arkanian’s head tilted to a steeper angle. “It’s an open bar.”

“Can I order a drink for you?”

After a beat of silence, Jesmyn began to develop a particular kind of grin—the kind that said  _ I’m fully aware you’re trying to change the subject, but you’re charming enough to get away with it.  _ “I’d like that.”

“Perfect!” Her heart humming merrily beneath her chest, the Jedi turned toward the bar. “I hope you’ve got some local equivalent of Corellian vodka here.”

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan was on what seemed like his umpteenth round of pleasant chitchat when he happened to catch sight of his apprentice over at the bar, talking very earnestly to a Rodian dressed in an almost revoltingly garish tuxedo, nodding his head vigorously every few seconds.  _ About time he showed up, he and Dooku must have been talking for half an hour.  _ The Jedi had been throwing apprehensive glances in the general direction of the two men’s Force presence from the moment they left his sight.

_ Qui-Gon said it herself, you’ve done a fine job,  _ he scolded himself.  _ Don’t micromanage him so much.  _ But the memory of Anakin casually throwing out the Chancellor’s distaste for the Order ran through his mind every so often, and it did a very persuasive job of arguing that maybe, if anyone were to be alone in a room with Dooku, it should be Qui-Gon.  _ Though she seems to be busy,  _ he noted as his eyes traveled along the rest of the bar—his former partner was in what appeared to be a very intimate conversation with an Arkanian a few years younger than her.

As the Rodian broke away and headed for the dance floor, Obi-Wan strode over to his apprentice. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Huh?” Anakin asked, jolting upright from his slouch against the bar.

Obi-Wan frowned—usually his apprentice would have already sensed him coming. “You’re out of practice, I saw you lift that Rodian’s drink from several meters away. They’re  _ free _ , Anakin.”

A curiously forced chuckle emerged from Anakin’s throat. “Old habits, I guess.” Raising the stolen glass to his lips, he downed the clear liquid within and grimaced. “Suited to a Rodian palate, I guess.”

Squeezing into position alongside the younger man, Obi-Wan motioned for the bartender. “Ah,” he remarked to Anakin, “a human, no less.”

“Yeah,” murmured the other man, “I guess a mixer droid isn’t fancy enough for the occasion.”

“Ah, General Kenobi!” exclaimed said human man, beaming and unconsciously fiddling with the bowtie he wore. “What can I do for you?”

As he mulled it over, Obi-Wan’s mind flashed back to the first time he’d been in the same bar as Anakin.  _ I don’t think I’ve actually had one since then.  _ “A Hapes Cluster would be wonderful,” he replied. “Juna berries instead of cyanoberries, please.”

“Right away!” The bartender began rummaging for ingredients under the counter.

Anakin snorted. “Padmé is on record as thinking you’re insane for liking those.”

“It’s been two years since my last one, I think I’m allowed to indulge in something sweet.”

As he waited for his drink, Obi-Wan let his senses drift over his apprentice’s aura and felt his heart sink.  _ Something _ wasn’t right—the same mix of confusion and worry that had hung over Anakin like a pall the whole trip was still there, and it was stronger than it had been.

Careful to keep his tone light, the general asked, “So, what did you and the Count discuss?”

“Oh, he just wanted to know the details of our adventures back when the war started,” Anakin replied, his own voice full of the same horrible faux-cheer his master had just used.

“Your Hapes Cluster, General,” the bartender said, sliding a glass full of swirling berries and pink liquid toward Obi-Wan. “Do enjoy.”

Sighing quietly, the Jedi turned away from Anakin and slid a couple of credit coins across the bar. “Thank you so much.”

Raising the glass to his lips, he took a slow sip. The sweetness struck his tongue, blossoming into something cool and refreshing and—

_ Oh.  _ It wasn’t the same. The drink he’d had on Had Abbadon had been close to the best thing he’d ever tasted—this one was almost cloyingly sweet, and there was a tang of some inexplicable  _ wrongness _ floating underneath.

“The dive back in Jira Grotto make ‘em better?” Anakin asked, a hint of mockery in the question.

Obi-Wan let the glass thunk down onto the bar, still half full. “They used a droid. I guess they are still useful for something.”

“Yeah, they don’t have personality but they’ll never put too much syrup in, give ‘em that.”

A lull followed, the two of them simply staring into the mirror at the back of the bar, their reflections distorted and shimmering. Anakin continued to simmer like a kettle slowly building; to his right, Obi-Wan could sense exactly how good a time Qui-Gon was having with her new friend. The contrast between the two was almost like being caught in the middle of a tug of war.

_ At least one of us is happy. _

“Anakin,” the general finally said, turning to look his apprentice in the eye, “are you sure everything with Dooku went w—”

_ Wait a moment. _

He’d assumed the roiling disquiet in the Force he’d sensed was coming entirely from Anakin, but as the younger man turned to face him, Obi-Wan could sense a second location of negative energy flowing through the room. It wasn’t the same kind Anakin was giving off—it was quieter, easier to miss, but worse somehow. Anakin was frustrated—this felt malevolent.

“Obi-Wan?” his apprentice asked, his brow furrowing with concern. “What’s going on?”

Reaching blindly for his glass, Obi-Wan wrapped his fingers around it, raised it to his lips, and drained the rest. “Do you know where Dooku and Lorian are?”

Frowning, Anakin looked out toward the dance floor. “Yeah, they’re with some diplomat over there.”

Pushing away from the bar, Obi-Wan said, “Keep an eye on them.”

“Well where are  _ you _ off to?” the younger man shot back as the general started to push his way through the crowd.

“Hopefully nowhere serious,” Obi-Wan muttered.

 

* * *

 

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: RESONANT PENDANT** _

Instrument of the Cosmic Choir of the Force, a disfellowshipped group of Force worshippers.

This necklace is crafted from an intricate weave of metal. Suspended in the center of each pendant is a sliver of kyber crystal. When Force power is applied to the crystal, the pendant appears to “sing.” These frequencies compound on each other, filling the Choir’s halls with emanations of twisted energy.

The resonant pendant kept within the library at the Jedi Temple is for display and archival purposes only. Under no circumstances should a Jedi attempt to use it.


	28. Go Alone

Several hours of trudging through a dense forest had not been kind to Admiral Valis’ once pristine combat uniform. Her boots, formerly polished to perfection, were now unrecognizable beneath a slowly hardening lacquer of mud. The pants and sleeves of the uniform were rife with barely visible tears—abrasions caused by a hasty brush against a particularly sharp branch, of which there were many throughout the woods.

The admiral herself had not fared any better. She kept her icy hair trimmed short for the sake of utility, and even still it had become unruly—matted with sweat and tangled with leaves when she’d tried to duck underneath a particularly low tree and failed to duck enough. Her face was crossed with dirty scratches. As she stared several paces in front of her, Valis couldn’t help but think that her Zabrak companion had made the wiser wardrobe choice. Maul’s all-black cloak and tunic combination was, by her estimation, equally ravaged by the elements—but it didn’t show quite so easily. 

It was, she thought, the perfect mirror of their moods. 

Maul, in a strange inversion of the usual, had seemed relatively serene as the pair had clawed their way through the forest. It was Valis who was growing ever agitated—their apparent lack of any real progress toward their destination was grating, to say the least.  _ Hours upon hours of the same damn thing _ , Valis inwardly grumbled as she swiped a dangling tree branch out of her way.  _ The same mud _ —it squelched in protest beneath the weight of her footfalls— _ the same river _ —it rushed along beside her without a care in the world, as it had for nearly their entire journey— _ the same trees _ —she swiped another hanging branch aside. 

Her inner complaints were interrupted by a  _ snap-hiss,  _ a  _ thwum _ , and a  _ snap _ . Ten paces beyond her, Maul had sliced one blade of his lightsaber through a particularly thick cluster of overgrowth. The clump of leaves and wood sizzled as it hit the forest floor; the Zabrak smacked  it with the saber once again, cleaving a path through the center. 

“Hey!” Valis hissed, halfheartedly jogging to catch up to Maul. “Turn that damn thing off. You’ll give away our position.” 

He stared back at her, a defiant grin painted on his face. Gently rotating the half-activated saberstaff in his hand, the Sith let out a scoff. “One would think.” With that, he whirled around and ducked through the new opening in the dense clump of plant growth. 

“Maul,” Valis snapped as she followed the Zabrak through the improvised path—the charred edges of the branches dragged against her uniform, leaving streaks of soot in their wake—”what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Do you trust the intel you have on this place?” As he asked the question, Maul whipped back around to face Valis. His thumb flicked across his saber’s activation switch, causing the crimson blade to retreat into the lengthy hilt. 

“Intel? Valis asked, barely resisting the urge to laugh. “I didn’t think you knew the meaning of the word.” 

He seemed to shrug off the insult, and began casually pacing across the width of the cramped forest path. “If this planet is as you say it is—guarded by paranoid pirates, ready to destroy our objective the moment they discover our approach—why have we not encountered anyone?” 

Valis opened her mouth to answer, but stopped short of actually speaking. She found herself somewhat taken aback by the question. It was, much to her surprise . . . sensible.  _ Too much so,  _ she thought.

_ I wonder how many more times he’ll do that before I stop being surprised. _

“Do you know something I don’t?” were the words that left her mouth after several moments of silence.  _ A bit accusatory, Sephone,  _ she silently scolded herself—though she fought to keep the regret from showing on her face.  _ Antagonizing him when there’s no one to find your body isn’t the best move. _

Maul’s eyes narrowed. “I know only what the dark side tells me. You’d know it too, if you let yourself. Reach out.” 

The suggestion would have, at one time in Valis’ life, seemed ridiculous. Perhaps in some ways it still was.  _ What the hell,  _ she thought,  _ maybe the dark side can show me a way out of this.  _ Silently, she bowed her head. 

Her senses extended outward as she closed her eyes—it was a wave rushing outward, tendrils creeping across the forest floor and winding up the trunks of trees like snakes. A vibrant aura of life flowed at her from all directions—though none of it, by Valis’ estimation, was intelligent life. A further push into the unknown returned an empty echo; a massive  _ absence _ . She opened her eyes, raised her head, and shot a grim smile at her Sith instructor. 

“I sense nothing.”

“Precisely,” he replied, fastening his saber hilt to his belt and wrapping his cloak tighter to conceal it. “The path we are on leads nowhere.” 

A humorless laugh escaped Valis’ lips. “Save the cryptic foresight for the Jedi, Maul. It doesn’t suit you.” Brushing against the Zabrak as she shoved past him, she swept her arms across the width of the narrow path through the forest. “There’s life all around us. Trees, plants, creatures. It almost . . . glows in the Force, don’t you think?” Craning her neck, she turned back to stare at him. “When I said I sensed nothing, I meant I felt the absence of  _ that _ . There’s a clearing up ahead. A massive one.”

She took another handful of steps forward—she was face to face with a wall of vines, one that looked ever so slightly out of place against the rest of the plant life. Stretching one arm forward, she pressed a hand into the clump of tendrils. It was soft, almost slick in places, but it was what lay beneath it that truly stood out.  _ Metal.  _ The interlocking loops of a chain link fence. 

“The facility,” Valis whispered under her breath. She kept a hand against the fence, but turned her head to look back at Maul. “We’re here.”

Then, eyes wide with anticipation, she shoved against the fence. 

It was not a physical shove—her arm did not budge an inch. Rather, a push of mental energy shot outward from Valis’ fingertips and slammed into the fence. It tore a section of the chain link from its posts and sent it sailing away, still tangled in a mess of vine tendrils. 

As she stared out into the newly revealed clearing before her, her heart sank. 

Maul, on the other hand, seemed almost amused. As he strolled casually forward to stand beside Valis, he let out a guttural chuckle. “As I said,” he began as he came to a stop next to his apprentice, “this road leads nowhere.” 

A wasteland of duracrete stretched out before the Sith and the admiral. Vaguely convex in shape, the greyish slab planted in the forest floor was pockmarked with cracks and divots—in some places, holes had been punched straight through the gargantuan duracrete dish. Perhaps it had once been used for communication—to beam massive data packets to space, or receive equally large transmissions from orbit. It was a satellite dish as large as any Valis had ever seen, pointed directly skyward, embedded straight into the ground, and in a horrid state of disrepair.

The forest was completely clear around the dish, a distinctively artificial perfect circle. Sentient hands had crafted the structure, and it was the neglect of sentient hands that had left it in this state. Valis clenched a fist, felt her nails dig into her palm.  _ No,  _ she thought.  _ No, this can’t be what’s left. _

“It looks different than you were expecting, I take it?” 

Maul’s words sent the heat of rage rising up her face. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to whirl around and punch the Zabrak. Then the moment passed, and a defeated sigh escaped her lips.

“Whatever pirates once operated this facility are clearly gone,” Maul continued. “Let’s go.” He took a step backwards, then slowly turned to walk away from the clearing. 

“Go where?” As she spoke, Valis remained frozen in place, staring out across the expanse of duracrete and debris. The words left her mouth in a robotic monotone. 

“To the ship.”

“No.” In sharp contrast to her last statement, this single word came out wrapped in pent-up fury. She spun around to glare at Maul. “We have not come this far to give up. Weeks of planning, the days of travel, the hours of trudging through this”—she paused for a moment, choking on her words as she threw her hands in the air—”goddamn forest to show up on the doorstep of our destination and just . . .  _ walk away?  _ I don’t think so.

“This is it, Maul. If we leave now, we’ll get dragged back into Mekosk’s war. Our chance to do things our way will be gone. We will  _ not  _ get another shot at this, so I am not leaving until I see the inside of that place. You want to leave? Fine. I’ll go in by myself if I have to.” 

The pair stood face to face for a moment—Maul, his weight casually shifted onto his rear foot, merely stared at her without even blinking. It quickly occurred to Valis that—although she didn’t want to admit it—she’d been bluffing. And Maul had called it. 

_ Two can play that game, Master,  _ she thought, mentally sneering as the final word crossed her mind. She spun back to face the expanse of the duracrete dish and began to march across it. 

It was somewhat of a relief to set foot on solid ground—or at least ground that didn’t give way slightly when stepped on or leave one’s boots coated in filth. Each footfall kicked up a fine layer of pebbles, undoubtedly stripped from the dish’s surface by years of rain erosion. Valis’ brisk walk took her past a bank of solar panels that had seen better days—the cells were cracked or shattered, their housings splayed in different directions, the wires running from them frayed beyond use. 

She fought the urge to glance over her shoulder. Looking back at Maul, she knew, would only give him satisfaction. Instead she marched forward, scanning the space in front of her for anything resembling an entrance.

Before she could find one, one was made for her. 

With a great  _ crack _ , the duracrete beneath her feet split apart—first into two pieces, then four, and so on until it was nothing but rubble. Valis was falling downward, carried on a bed of debris into the unknown below. She reached below with her mind, frantically pushing in a vain effort to slow her fall. 

Then her descent was over, and she was slamming into a pile of refuse, sliding down it as the jagged edges of duracrete tore at her uniform and clawed at her arms. 

When her slide had slowed to a halt and the dust had settled, Valis gingerly rose to her feet. She was standing on a metal catwalk, illuminated only by the light streaming through the new hole in the duracrete dish above. 

The space around her, mostly cloaked in darkness, was dotted by streams of light shining through the ceiling; spotlights like the one that shone on her. She took a cautious step forward out of the light, reaching for her holstered blaster as she did so. As she drew it from the holster, the sound of crackling plastic and shearing metal resonated through the cavernous chamber. 

Valis glanced down at the blaster—or rather, half a blaster—in her hand. The weapon had evidently taken the brunt of her fall; with a roll of her eyes, she threw the remainder of it at the catwalk with some force. 

The grate-like walkway groaned in protest, and Valis hastily clawed at handrails that weren’t there. Her sudden movement seemed only to exacerbate the catwalk’s structural issues—at a point less than a foot in front of  her, it snapped, caving downward as it did so.

And so, once again, Admiral Valis was falling into darkness.

 

* * *

  
  


Valis picked herself up from her second hard landing of the day. It had been cushioned—if one could use that word—by a brief run-in with waterlogged ceiling tile and a final stop in an ankle-deep puddle.

As she rose to her feet, her clothes now torn and soaked and sullied, she attempted to take in her surroundings. The darkness of the area proved a barrier to that goal. She was, as best she could tell, in a narrow hallway.  _ Some sort of office complex,  _ she mused.  _ Doesn’t feel like a lab.  _

The lab, she knew, was her ultimate goal. Getting there without being able to see would be all but impossible. As her night vision slowly came in, she could tell that the overhead lights in the hall had long since been stripped from their housing. The emergency lights, placed in even intervals where the walls met the ceiling, had had their bulbs shattered. And so, Valis supposed, she had no other choice if she were to see where she was going. 

Unclasping her lightsaber from its place on her belt, she thumbed the activation switch. With a  _ snap-hiss,  _ the hall was filled with a crimson glow. She waved the saber back and forth—it  _ thwummed  _ gently as she did so—across the space, looking for any sort of navigational aid. 

She found it on the far wall, where the hall angled into a ninety-degree corner. Several placards adorned with arrows guided would-be workers to various departments: “Processing” or “Lobby” or “Comm Room.” It was the item at the top of the list—”Production Facility”—that caught Valis’ eye.  _ Corporate euphemism for ‘cloning lab,’ eh?  _ she thought.  _ My intel was wrong, then. Pirates wouldn’t bother with that. _

Holding the lightsaber out in front of her as if it were a torch rather than a weapon, Valis took a cautious step forward. After a few more of these cautious strides, it occurred to the admiral that the glow cast by her lightsaber would alert anyone inside the facility of her approach, no matter how carefully she moved. Relaxing her shoulders, she stood to her full height and casually strode to the end of the hall. 

As she rounded the corner, a blur of movement caught Valis’ eye. Tensing up, she stretched out her senses, allowing the tendrils of perception to snake down the end of this new hallway. It was as before, up in the forest: though she sensed life, none of it was intelligent. Forest-dwelling creatures, Valis assumed, had made their way down into the abandoned facility. She relaxed again.  _ Just an animal, Sephone. You can deal with an animal. _

She proceeded like this for several minutes, winding through indistinguishable hallways lit only by the red glow of her lightsaber and feeling no real sense of progress toward the so-called “Production Facility.” The only variety offered by the office complex was the occasional blur of movement in front of her, or the distinct sense that the same movement was happening behind her. Each time, she shrugged it off.  _ Just an animal.  _

After what felt like an hour but had only been ten minutes at most, Valis finally arrived at an object of note: a massive durasteel vault door planted into the far wall of the hallway. On it, fading letters that at one time had spelled “Production Facility” could barely be seen. 

“Finally,” she said under her breath—Valis stopped momentarily to appreciate the eerie quality of her voice resonating in the abandoned, poorly lit space before moving toward the door. She scanned the walls around the vault door for a control panel, or an activation lever—anything that might serve to move the hulking barrier aside. 

Her eyes eventually fell on a control panel—though, like the overhead lights throughout the office complex, it had been torn completely from its housing. She grasped at the bundle of exposed wires with her free hand and let out a deep sigh. Sephone Valis knew her limits, and hotwiring a control panel was not within her skill set. 

She stepped back several paces, sizing up the vault door before her. Glancing at the improvised glowrod in her hand, she inhaled deeply and shrugged. Angling the lightsaber toward the durasteel slab, she charged forward and plunged the blade into the door. Though it offered some resistance at first, as the metal glowed brighter it became easier to slide the lightsaber through it. Valis carved a vaguely rectangular shape into the door, then stepped back and mentally shoved at the still-glowing metal. 

The rectangle fell forward with a  _ thud _ , and Valis ducked through the opening, careful to avoid the molten edges. The “production facility,” though brighter than the office complex before it, was still not properly lit. It was also smaller than Valis had expected—though, it occurred to her, the space might not encompass the whole of the cloning facility. It felt more the size of an antechamber or side room, perhaps the size of the main hangar of the  _ Charybdis _ . Cylinders of a gently glowing liquid lined the walls, though none were large enough to fit a human inside. 

“Not the main chamber, then,” she mumbled to herself. “Something else.” Shutting off her lightsaber but keeping the hilt grasped firmly in one hand, Valis stepped slowly toward one of the cylinders that sat at eye level. As she leaned in to inspect it, it became apparent that there was an object suspended in the glowing blue liquid. 

Squinting, Valis cocked her head to one side. She placed her left hand against the transparisteel cylinder, leaning even closer to look inside. It was at that moment that a severed human arm floated into view—it terminated at the elbow, and its fist was clasped tight. 

Valis grimaced in disgust, though she didn’t pull away from the container. Instead she stared closer, inspecting the point where the limb ended. “Not severed,” she mused. “Too clean of a break for that.” Rather, she realized, this limb had been freshly grown, intended to  _ replace  _ one that had been cut off. 

In that instant, the closed fist of the arm curled open.

The arm floated toward the walls of its canister—palm open, it pressed against the transparisteel in the same spot Valis’ own hand was spread against. With a shout, Valis leapt backwards, nearly falling to the floor. She instinctively snapped her lightsaber back on, once again bathing herself in a crimson glow. 

Another shout—an imitation of her own, though uttered by a man—sounded from across the room. Then, another identical sound, this time from behind her. A third and fourth, to her left and right. Her eyes darted among the directions each sound had come from; she rotated in place, lightsaber held in a defensive posture. 

Finally,  the source of one shout stepped into the glow cast by the blue canisters.

It was an approximation of a human man, twisted and deformed by some horrible force. One leg was disproportionately large and muscular, as if it belonged to a bodybuilder—the man limped along, dragging its other, comparatively atrophied leg behind it. 

Jagged growths jutted from the man’s skull at odd angles—what they were meant to be, Valis couldn’t be certain. It opened its mouth to shout again; what few teeth it did have left seemed more like fangs, lengthy and sharpened to a needle-like point. 

The noise that left the creature’s mouth this time was an ear-splitting scream.

 

* * *

 

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: SABERSTAFF** _

A double-bladed Sith weapon regarded as a corruption of the Jedi lightsaber. 

The first saberstaff was crafted centuries ago by a fallen Jedi who killed a dear friend, took her lightsaber, and fused it with his own at the pommel. This double-bladed lightsaber went on to kill many Jedi before its wielder was finally defeated in a lengthy, arduous duel with the Jedi Battlemaster of the time.

Modern saberstaff construction is remarkably similar to the original design, though variations do exist—some saberstaff designs can be separated into two distinct lightsabers, for example. Jedi Knights are strongly discouraged, though not forbidden, from constructing a saberstaff as their first Jedi weapon. Desire to wield a saberstaff is often considered a sign of dangerous, deep-seated aggression. 


	29. Into Position

The courtyard garden of the Royal Theed Hotel was, by Mace Windu’s estimation, not meant to host visitors in the morning hours. The space was cozy, bracketed on all four sides by the multistory stonework walls of the hotel—windows and balconies faced into the courtyard, beyond sat some of the hotel’s more premium rooms—and directly overhead the open sky was visible. Yet at the same time, it was disappointingly dark; the morning sun had not risen high enough to shine through the skylight. The cobblestone beneath Mace’s feet, as well as the grass that cradled the path, was completely cast in shadow. 

So too was the courtyard’s outdoor café. A cluster of tables, no more than a dozen, were scattered across a small patio, behind which sat a shop adorned with an awning. One waiter droid moved from table to table, placing silverware and glasses at each setting in evident preparation for the lunch crowd. A sole patron—an elderly man dressed in formal wear—sat relaxed in his chair, smoking a pipe and reading some sort of print publication as a mug of caf sat neglected in front of him. 

Mace leaned against the wall on the opposite end of the courtyard, trying his best to disappear into the crisscrossing shadows cast by the string lights suspended overhead. He adjusted the knapsack that hung over his shoulder, at the same time fishing a hand into the pocket of his tunic. His fingertips brushed against cold steel, and he felt his arm muscles tense up as his heart rate spiked. Rolling the chilled metal between his fingers, he slowly extracted it from the pocket. He kept the object held low, obscured by shadow, but opened his palm to stare at it. 

It was a slim metal cylinder, no longer than his hand, which narrowed into a point at one end. The icy white of frozen condensation clung to the bottom third of the cylinder.  _ This is it, Windu,  _ he thought as the cylinder stared back up at him _. Last hit.  _ His eyes darted rapidly to one side, then the other. Certain that no one was watching—all balconies above were vacant, the serving droid had disappeared indoors, and the old man was far too absorbed in whatever he was reading—Mace gripped the cool cylinder firmly in a fist and jammed the tip into his nostril. 

At once he felt the rush of chilled hexacodone swirling up his nasal passage. A fog descended over his brain and a lightness flowed across his body, as if someone had taken a great weight off his shoulders. He hoisted the knapsack once again, then took a step forward. 

The step turned into a stride, as he felt his body move through the courtyard and into the interior of the hotel. He knew, somewhere in the conscious and intellectual part of his brain, that he was still walking—but that wasn’t what it  _ felt  _ like. He floated through the hotel halls, gently gliding through one door into a stairwell. 

He felt the slowly warming metal of the expired hex cylinder leave his hand, clattering against the inner walls of a trash receptacle—the sound was distant, almost muffled, as if it were happening underwater. A contented smile began to form on Mace’s face as he took his first steps up the flight of stairs. 

By the time he had reached the second floor, the high was all but gone. A faint haze remained in his mind as frustration flooded in.  _ You should’ve known, Windu. Can’t trust street dealers like that. Diluting product, pushing watered-down crap.  _ He regretted even taking the hit of hex in the first place.  _ Should have just thrown it out the second you figured out it had been cut. What a waste. _ Though the muscle relaxation and the good mood would cling on for at least another hour, the true high, the reason most hexheads used in the first place, was nowhere to be found with this second-rate product. 

He shook his head as he reached the top of the stairs. It didn’t matter. There was work to be done here, and when he was done he could focus on getting clean again.  _ Maybe it’s a good thing this last dose was so disappointing,  _ he thought as he pushed open the door to the hotel suite.  _ That’ll teach you to go back for more.  _

The door revealed a hotel suite that was at once busy and strangely deserted. Only Amidala and the Clawdite occupied the main living room. Both sat at the central table—Padmé was fiddling with a cargo box atop the table’s surface; at the other end, Ellis poked at a circuit board with the tip of a soldering iron. 

A curl of smoke rose from the board as Mace eased the door shut behind him. As the smell hit his nose, memories came flooding back. Memories that were interrupted when Amidala rose to her feet and turned to address him. 

“Welcome back, Windu,” she said, moving toward him. “You got the uniforms?” 

“Yeah, I got ‘em. And before you ask: no, nobody saw me,” he replied, slight undertones of grumbling present in his voice. Letting the knapsack fall off his shoulder, Mace tossed it at Padmé and almost immediately turned to face the tinkering Clawdite. “Haven’t used one of those since I put together my lightsaber,” he said, gesturing to the soldering iron. “What’re you making?” 

Ellis did not turn to look at Mace, instead leaning in even closer to the circuit board and its tangle of protruding wires. The Clawdite didn’t seem to be ignoring him out of spite, he thought. She was just that absorbed in her work. 

“Keycard reader,” Padmé cut in, answering on Ellis’ behalf. 

“We can’t steal one, of course,” Ellis piped up—having reached an apparent stopping point, she sat up straight and slid the soldering iron into its cooling stand. “But if we can get close to one and scan it, we’ll have all the data we need. We’ll duplicate the card, print our own. And they won’t even be able to report it stolen, since we never took the actual keycard.” 

“Smart,” Mace said with a sharp nod of his head. “I hope you’ve got someone else in mind for that job, though. Sleight of hand is not my strong suit.” 

Padmé chuckled. “Oh, don’t you worry.” Turning to face one of the suite’s bedroom doors, she raised her voice and spoke again. “Hey, Kazan! Is he ready?” 

“ _ Oh, he’s ready all right, _ ” came Kazan’s voice, muffled by the closed door. Moments later the bedroom door swung aside, and a thoroughly disgruntled Raymus Antilles shuffled through the opening. 

A grin crept up Padmé’s face, and Ellis raised a clawed hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Raymus was dressed in a tweed jacket and sporting a flat cap, fake glasses perched upon his nose and a slightly crooked bow tie completing the ensemble. Kazan exited the bedroom behind Raymus, eyeing the pilot up and down with an apparent sense of pride. “Well,” he asked, moving his arms in one sweeping motion to indicate the outfit, “what do you think?”

Mace raised an eyebrow. “Why the hell is he dressed like that?”

“Thank you!” Raymus said, gesturing at the Jedi. “He gets it! This is ridiculous.” 

“That’s the  _ point _ , Raymus,” Padmé said, her tone a blend of stern scolding and a teasing jeer.  “All she’ll remember is the outfit. Which is exactly what we want, since you’ll never be wearing it after today.” 

Mace took a step forward, holding out a hand to lean against the dining table. “Hold on. I’m out of the loop here. Who’s supposed to remember the outfit?” 

“The vault receptionist,” Ellis answered, leaning back slightly in her chair. She jabbed a clawed finger in Raymus’ direction. “He’s the one going in with the keycard reader. He’s also bringing our boxed up droid friend.” 

Mace sensed a swift motion toward the opposite end of the table—his reflexes dulled by the hex, he startled slightly at the sound of the cargo box’s lid popping off and clattering to the floor. A skeletal droid arm protruded from within the box, its hand forming an obscene gesture in apparent response to the Clawdite’s words. At this, the Jedi couldn’t help but crack a smile. 

“Dammit, Liz,” Padmé muttered, snatching the box lid off the floor and slamming it back  in place. The woman shook her head, then looked up at Mace. “She’s gonna get us past the third door of the vault. That”—she gestured at Ellis’ tabletop tinkering project—“gets us the keycard info to get through the second door.”

“And the first door?” Mace asked. 

“Liz is helping there too. Her eyes can see beyond the visible spectrum, so she can see straight through the side of the box as the vault receptionist keys in the passcode. She’ll flash that data to a datacard taped to the bottom of the box, which Raymus will grab when he puts her on the vault shelf.” 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he replied, pulling back one of the chairs at the central table and easing himself into it. “Nicely done.”

“Oh, don’t get too comfortable,” she said, motioning for him to stand back up. “You’re up next in Kazan’s room.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Gotta take your measurements,” the grizzled bodyguard piped up, displaying a length of measuring tape as he spoke. “The uniforms you stole need alterations.” 

Gesturing to the knapsack containing said uniforms, Mace shook his head. “I made sure the ones I took were sized right, they’ll fit me and Amidala just fine.” 

“‘Just fine’ ain’t gonna cut it,” Kazan said with a laugh. “Theed Palace has every guard  uniform tailored. If it doesn’t fit perfectly, someone will know it’s not yours.”

Eyes narrowing, Mace let out a low grumble as he rose to his feet. “Fine. Do what you need to do.”

When the Jedi was halfway across the room, the security guard cleared his throat and pointed back to the knapsack. 

“We’ll need those.”

Wordlessly, and without looking back, Mace reached a hand behind him. The knapsack leapt off the table and sailed through the air, landing squarely in front of Kazan. The man looked down at the bag, then up at Mace. Then, with a shrug: “That’ll work.” 

As Kazan bent down to pick up the bag of clothing, the rest of the room’s occupants returned to their previous work. There was the sizzle of a soldering iron being cleaned, the shuffle of the cargo box being lifted off the table, and the voice of Padmé Amidala: “All right, Raymus. Let’s get you ready to go.”

 

* * *

 

The basement halls of Theed Palace were somehow warm and inviting—not as much as the grand open spaces of the palace’s main floor, but the soft lighting against the rustic stone walls made the cramped subterranean hallway seem rather cozy. 

The entrance to the SLS vault stood in stark contrast against the cozy stone walls. It was a polished slate of metal and transparisteel, which slid aside of its own accord as Raymus Antilles approached it. Gripping the large box in his arms even tighter, he turned somewhat awkwardly to nod at the pair of security guards that had escorted him downstairs. 

_ “You’re doing great, Raymus,”  _ a voice buzzed in his ear—it was Padmé, no doubt hunched over a computer terminal back at the hotel suite monitoring his every move.  _ “Just a little farther.” _

The polished slate door slid shut behind him, and he took in the vault lobby. Compared to the basement halls, the space was cold and clinical—hard angles and shades of grey made up the walls, the overhead lighting stung his eyes. Across the room, a human woman rose to her feet from behind a reception desk. 

“Good morning,” she began, suspicion evident on her face. “How can I help you?”

“Ah, hi,” Raymus managed as he lugged the box toward the desk. Heaving it onto the desk’s upper surface, he let out a long sigh. “Dr. Howarth sent me over to have this submitted into the vault.” He placed an open palm against the top of the box. 

The receptionist’s face brightened considerably. “Oh, of course!” She reached a hand toward the box lid. “I’ll just need to see—”

“Oh, no!” Raymus interrupted, pressing his own hand harder against the top of the box. “We can’t open it.” 

“ _ Dial it back, Raymus. Don’t act suspicious,”  _ the voice in his ear snapped. He only barely heard it—he was far more focused on the words of the receptionist. 

“Why not?” 

He took a deep breath, mentally urging himself to act casual. “It’s for next month’s art exhibit at the university. These are Gungan underwater sculptures from the Early Period. Dr. Howarth was very specific about not exposing them to light until they can be placed in their display tank.”

For several moments, silence hung in the air between them. Then the woman nodded slowly. “Okay, sure. No problem.” A smile formed on her face, and she sat down at the desk, spinning in the chair to face a computer terminal. Her fingers flew across the keys as she mumbled to herself—what exactly she was saying, Raymus couldn’t make out. 

His eyes wandered down to the keycard hanging from the woman’s belt—the stark white plastic of the card stood out against the navy of her pants. Allowing his right hand to fall to his side, he attempted to surreptitiously feel for the keycard skimmer that Ellis had built. He forced himself to think several steps ahead; he’d need to get the card skimmer close to her at some point once she stood up—

“Okay, all set!” the receptionist said, her expression bright. “I can take it from here.” 

Raymus felt his heart rate spike. “Don’t you need me to carry the box?” 

An apologetic smile formed on the woman’s face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid it’s not allowed. Dr. Howarth has limited vault access; I’m allowed to escort him in. But since he sent you, I have to take things in myself. I can’t bring you into the vault unless he submits a special form granting you permission to enter.” 

“He was very insistent that I accompany the box the whole way,” Raymus replied, fighting the shakiness forming in his voice. He lowered his other hand beneath the reception counter, grasping at his trembling right arm.

“ _ Just get out of there, Raymus,”  _ Padmé’s voice crackled in his ear—the nervousness evident in her voice did nothing to calm Raymus down.  _ “We’ll figure something else out.”  _

He wanted to talk back, to snap about how there wasn’t time to figure something else out. But he couldn’t talk back to his fellow crew members. They had known this going in, and planned accordingly—“cough once for yes, twice for no,” Padmé had said. So he did: two sharp coughs, which Raymus dearly hoped the vault receptionist would dismiss as him clearing his throat.

_ “Antilles, don’t you dare—” _

“What if I called him?” 

The vault receptionist cocked her head to the side. “Hm?”

“What if I called Dr. Howarth?” Raymus asked. As he spoke, he raised his hand back above the counter; in it, he held a commlink. “Could he give his approval over the comm?”

She reached up to stroke her chin. “Well, we really aren’t supposed to do that.” Her eyes darted between the vault door, Raymus, and the cargo box sitting on the counter. “But I suppose just this once is fine. So long as he submits the proper form next time he’s going to send an assistant.” 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Raymus said with a smile as he passed his commlink to the woman. “It’s dialing now.” 

_ “Howarth,”  _ came the voice over the commlink. It was that of a man—the age in the voice was evident, as was the faintest Core accent. 

“Eleazar!” the receptionist replied, sounding genuinely pleased. “It’s Mirabelle, calling from the vault. How are you?” 

_ “Oh, fine. Just fine. Busy with preparations for the fundraiser gala, of course.”  _

“Of course! So sorry to bother you. I’ve got an assistant of yours down here”—she paused, glancing at Raymus and cocking her head to the side. 

“Armistan,” he offered with a nod.

“Armistan,” Mirabelle echoed, “who wants to have some sculptures entered into the vault. Problem is, you didn’t file the authorization paperwork. I can’t let him in.”

_ “Ah, dammit. You have my apologies, dear. Let him in just this once, I promise I’ll send the proper authorizations over next time.”  _

“Of course, Doctor. See you tomorrow night?” 

_ “Yes, Mirabelle. Looking forward to it.”  _ Then, with a faint  _ click,  _ the commlink disconnected. 

A smile grew across Mirabelle’s face as she passed the commlink across the desk. “Well then, Armistan”—she placed a heavy emphasis on the name, as if trying to indicate she still remembered it—“looks like we’re all set. Grab that box of sculptures and follow me.”

 

* * *

 

A deep sigh escaped Ellis Korven’s mouth as she leaned back in her chair and pocketed her commlink. On the table in front of her, a portable computer terminal flashed readouts of various data, and a microphone on a stand allowed anyone in the room to talk into Raymus’ ear. Behind her, Padmé paced back and forth as she ran a finger through her hair. 

“He’s pretty good,” Ellis muttered, turning around to look at Padmé. “You were ready to bail and he just . . . came up with that. Some warning would have been nice though, I didn’t have a lot to go on for that voice.” 

“Well, you killed it anyway,” Padmé said, exhaling as she collapsed into a chair. Reaching a hand up to her forehead, she squeezed at her temples. “Did we get the passcode for the first door?” 

Ellis shrugged. “We won’t know until he’s back, I don’t have a comm connection to Liz.” As part of the terminal display flashed red, Ellis leaned in closer to inspect it. “Dammit,” she whispered. Then, reaching a claw out to poke the microphone’s talkback button, she spoke louder: “Antilles, I’m gonna need you to bump into the receptionist again. The card skimmer didn’t get a clean read when you just did it.” 

A lone cough came back over the comm line. Shooting a sideways glance at Padmé, Ellis snapped off a nod. “I think we’re good.”

“All right.” With a slow exhale, Padmé rose from her chair. “Guess I’m up next.”

 

* * *

 

Raymus squinted against the daylight as he hurriedly descended the front steps of Theed Palace—though the vault had been adequately lit, there was something inherently brighter about natural sunlight, especially on a day as clear as this one. 

His heart rate had yet to come down into a normal range after his time in the vault. Things had almost gone wrong on several fronts, but at the end of the day every step of the plan had been accomplished. Now, all there was left to do was to make his way back to—

“Walk with me.”

Though he recognized the voice, it came from a woman he decidedly did not—her short blonde hair was swept to one side, her face was framed by thick glasses, she sported a dark lipstick, and a neck tattoo was vaguely visible beneath the protruding collar of her sweeping black gown. 

Still, he did as instructed, falling in stride with the mystery woman as she walked away from the palace and toward one of the canals cutting through the royal city. 

“Don’t talk until we’re in the boat,” she ordered, keeping her gaze locked straight forward. 

_ The boat?  _

Sure enough, moments later they were stepping off the edge of the duracrete road and into a moored boat that bobbed up and down in the canal. “You can drive one of these, yeah?” the woman asked.

Raymus nodded, moving into position behind the watercraft’s steering wheel. As soon as the woman had untied the boat’s moorings, they were off. 

The craft sputtered a bit as Raymus brought it up to speed—he caught a glance of a Twi’lek back on the docks eyeing the craft skeptically—but it maneuvered beautifully as he wove between other boat traffic on the canal. The woman settled into the couch behind the driver’s seat, crossing her legs and spreading her arms wide against the back of the seat. 

“So,” Raymus said without looking back, “a getaway  _ boat _ ?” 

The woman—a disguised Padmé, Raymus was now certain—chuckled. “There’s no good route from the vault to the streets. But a couple of the canals drain down into the plateau, and I think we can get to those drainage pits down in the vault level.” 

After a moment of silence, he turned to face her—the gentle afternoon breeze tossed her hair about as she stared somewhat longingly at the picturesque city around them. “Your look had me fooled at first. You’re a better shapeshifter than Korven.” 

“I’m going to tell her you said that.” 

“That’s a wig, right?” Raymus asked, ignoring Padmé’s jab. “You didn’t actually cut and dye your hair for this?”

“I’ve got a few disguises lying around,” she replied. “They came in handy back in the day, and I never could bring myself to throw them out. Now I know why.” 

Satisfied with the answer, Raymus shrugged and turned back around to face the bow of the boat. “This thing looks pretty beat up,” he said as he drifted the craft into a listing turn. “What if we really need to book it?” 

“I’m told it’ll do just fine in that department. Go ahead, open it all the way up. Let’s see what she can really do.” 

And just like that, they were blazing through the Theed canals without a care in the world—for a moment, Raymus was able to forget what he’d just been through. Forget what was on the horizon. And then they were slowing down, docking the boat and disembarking. Returning to the reality of what they were about to do, and returning to the Royal Theed Hotel.

 

* * *

 

Night had fallen on the hotel courtyard, and the café had come to life. The string lights overhead cast crisscrossed shadows across every face in the establishment as the waiter droid—who sported an entirely unnecessary apron—flitted from table to table with a tray of drinks in hand. Each table hosted trios of friends, or couples on dates, enjoying drinks and appetizers as the jazz trio in the corner provided entertainment. 

In the shrouded corner opposite the band, Padmé Amidala drank alone. She swirled the white wine in its stemless glass and raised it to her nose—before she could take another sip, an approaching figure cast even more of a shadow over her table. 

“The senator said you wanted to see me.” 

Without waiting for a response, Mace Windu slid into the seat across from Padmé. He placed both elbows on the table and leaned in toward her as she took a drink of her wine. 

“Thanks for coming,” she said softly. “Can I get you anything?” 

He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Everything prepared?”

Shrugging uneasily, she downed what was left in her glass. “As prepared as we’re going to get on our schedule. Which is more prepared than I tend to be, honestly.”

Windu snorted. “So when you robbed that bank, it was on the spur of the moment.”

“That,” she said, motioning to a passing droid for a refill, “is a story I’ll tell you once this is over. Maybe you’ll swap it for another Hutt Space yarn.”

For a while, they two simply let the chattering crowd and the distant music wash over them.  _ We could just be a pair of friends, for all they know,  _ Padmé thought, scanning the people who surrounded them.  _ No crazy plans, no secret powers, no war. _

_ When this is all over,  _ she promised herself,  _ Anakin and I are going to come here. An  _ actual _ vacation, the two of us. _

And then Windu broke the silence. “So what do you need?” 

As the jazz trio reached the end of a song and the café filled with polite applause, Padmé leaned in to match the Jedi’s pose. “Do you think this is going to work?” 

“If you’re asking me to look into the future,” he whispered back, “you’re wasting your time. I’m not your fortune teller, Amidala.” He glanced thoughtfully toward the rest of the café crowd. “Besides, that’s not how I see things.” 

“Right. Shatterpoint.” 

Without looking back at her, he nodded slowly. 

“Okay. Is this heist a shatterpoint?” 

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips, and he shook  his head. “That isn’t how it works. It’s not usually events. It’s people.” 

“You know what I mean,” she hissed. The crowd around them was silent for a moment as the band began a new song—Padmé paused, waiting for the din of conversation to resume around them. “Is any of this going to matter? Going to make a difference?” 

Windu turned to stare across the table at her, then his eyes slowly shut. By Padmé’s estimation, the Jedi almost looked  _ serene _ —a state she had not come to expect from him in the brief time they’d known each other. 

Then his eyes fluttered open, and he spoke his answer: “No.” 

She felt her heart sink. “You’re sure?” 

“I can’t be certain,” he offered with a shrug. “But I’m not sensing the significance you’re looking for.”

“So why even do it?” 

This elicited a slight laugh from the Jedi. “Asking questions like that, I see why they brought you to the Temple. You fit right in.” When she shot him a confused look, he continued. “It’s a big debate in the Order, how much we should let the Force’s whispers of the future guide us. Are our premonitions destined to happen? Can we change the things we see? Everyone has an opinion,  but no one really has an answer.” Looking out across the courtyard, his eyes sparkling with reflected light, he continued, “My old master liked to say that the future is always in motion—we see what  _ could _ be, not what is.”

Padmé traced her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “And what’s your opinion?” 

Serenity died, replaced by something harder. Final. “Palpatine needs to be stopped. We’re doing something about it.  _ That’s  _ my opinion.” Though abrupt, she didn’t think the words were spoken with annoyance—simply resolve.

The Jedi rose to his feet. “Get some rest, huh? Big day tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone.

For the rest of the night, Padmé Amidala sat and drank alone.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: GUNGAN UNDERWATER PRESSURE SCULPTING** _

The amphibious Gungans of Naboo are notable in the art world for their use of underwater pressure sculpting, a technique they have mastered over several centuries. 

Gungan underwater sculptors practice their craft by descending to incredible depths in the lakes and seas of Naboo. There, they craft intricate sculptures and carvings. Once their work is complete, the sculpture is rapidly sent toward the surface. This sudden decrease in water pressure deforms the artwork, symbolizing the external force of nature and the will of the Gungan gods. 

These sculptures are not meant to be taken out of water—exposure to unfiltered light is extremely harmful to the brittle material, and at certain depths they display characteristics and colors that would not be visible above water. Art connoisseurs who travel to Naboo often pay several thousand credits for transportation to the Gungan city of Otoh Gunga in order to view these sculptures in person. 


	30. The Depths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Thanks so much to all of you who have followed us on this journey so far. We’ve just about reached the halfway point of The Shadow Within, and are very excited for you to see what lies in store for our characters on the road ahead.
> 
> Due to a few different circumstances—chief among them the fact that our backlog of finished chapters has been running thin and the fact that one of us is going to be moving over the next couple of weeks—the fic will be taking a two-week hiatus starting today. Regularly scheduled chapters will resume on Monday, May 6th, and will continue until this episode of the alternate prequels has reached its conclusion.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for sticking with us! May the Force be with you.

Before Obi-Wan had gotten halfway across the ballroom, the malevolent presence was on the move, headed for the main exit. Doing his best to speed after it without causing an obvious fuss, the general brushed between conversing couples and threaded around serving droids. From his left, a noble of some kind approached, opening his mouth in a greeting; Obi-Wan shoved forward, and heard an affronted sigh follow him.

There was no sign of his quarry as he finally maneuvered his way out into the main entryway, but fortunately Obi-Wan didn’t need to rely on his eyes—the Force showed him the way as easily as if the person he was following had tracked black paint across the white surface beneath his feet. Whoever this presence was, they had taken a sharp left and were moving fast, still on this level.

Extending a cushion of Force power, the Jedi did his best to muffle his footfalls as he jogged in this direction, his boots falling against the floor with muted  _ thump _ s. This path was still enclosed within the city’s structure—the transparent ceiling gave the illusion of sky, but no breeze wafted through—but up ahead, where the person he was tracking had fled, the walls open up into a sort of indoor courtyard, peppered with plants and benches. The nearly deserted open space gave off a bizarre feeling of simultaneous claustrophobia and emptiness—a Twi’lek couple dressed in ballgowns were exchanging some passionate kisses on one of the benches, but everyone else still seemed to be inside.

As Obi-Wan passed by, one of the lovers looked up, her eyes brightening with recognition. “Are you—” she began.

“I’m just a janitor,” he replied, waving his hand and sending a strong suggestion her way; face falling slightly with disappointment, she turned back to her more urgent business.

The distant presence was starting to grow fainter, its pulse fading into a feeble ripple.  _ Keeping quiet isn’t worth it if you lose him,  _ Obi-Wan decided, and picked up the pace, his boots slapping the floor more audibly. Redirecting the Force energy that had kept him quiet, he let power flow through the muscles in his legs, giving them an extra boost of energy.

Space began to narrow as he crossed the courtyard, which branched off into three paths—the whispering remnant of his quarry’s presence clung most strongly to the one on the right, which Obi-Wan sped down. As his hold on his target’s aura solidified, he began to feel distinct emotions—chief among them a dawning awareness of being followed.

“Damn,” the Jedi hissed to himself, and broke into a full-on run.

The Force warned him that his path was going to narrow further before too long, and indeed, within a hundred meters it had tapered to the point where it would have been impossible for another person to run alongside him. The glass ceiling vanished, replaced by simple duracrete; the floor at his feet shifted as well, from bright and polished to matte, dull stone.  _ Must be a service tunnel of some kind. I suppose not everywhere on the moon can be beautiful.  _ It wasn’t any uglier than Obi-Wan was used to on Coruscant, but it stood out somehow against the polished magnificence of everything else on Serenno. It seemed a bad omen for some reason.

_ No such thing,  _ he chided himself,  _ stop being silly— _

Before he could finish the thought, a change in his perceptions snapped his attention back to the present moment. The presence he’d been so close to was now getting further away again—and it was going  _ down _ .

_ What in blazes—? Ah. _

The tunnel, he saw as he came skidding to a stop, flared briefly outward again only to terminate in two sets of doors, a pair of glowing circles set in the wall next to them. Whoever he was chasing had hurled themselves into a turbolift and then headed for the lower levels—wherever those led.

The quickest way would be to simply carve open both sets of doors with his lightsaber, find the shaft whose lift had already descended, and dive down after it.  _ That’s what Anakin would do. Which means it’s not a good idea.  _ After all, he had no idea  _ just _ how far down these lifts went. All he knew was that his quarry was receding further and further from his senses, which presumably meant the downward journey was a long one.  _ Also,  _ he realized with sudden dismay,  _ Dooku still has our lightsabers. _

With a growl, he jabbed at the  _ down _ arrow of the button panel. A soft chime sounded, and the pair of doors to his left slid open. Whipping them shut again with the Force as soon as he’d entered the cab, the general poked the bottom button on the dingy set of illuminated circles. An alarming, rattling creak sounded; then, with a grinding that set his teeth on edge, his lift began to descend.

 

* * *

 

There was no guarantee that shoving at the base of the lift with the Force would do anything, but it couldn’t reasonably hurt, Obi-Wan told himself. And indeed, after about ten seconds he felt the distant crackle of his target’s presence start to pick up in volume. His lift was gaining, though the sound of the grinding cables was  _ also _ increasing in volume the faster the general descended.

After half a minute or so had passed, he could feel his quarry cease their downward flight. Now they were moving horizontally once more, and running as fast as their feet could carry them, from what he could tell. Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan homed in on the presence’s location, his finger hovering over the  _ stop _ button. He left five seconds pass, six, seven, and then punched at the brake.

With an almighty shriek, the lift ground to a halt; before it had completely stopped, Obi-Wan had whipped his hands in opposite directions, prying the doors open with a heave. Stepping through them and into what lay beyond, he felt his feet smack down onto what felt like solid duracrete.

Had his business been less urgent, he would have stopped to gawk. The chamber he’d found himself in was a complete contrast to the grandeur up above, though it carried a certain wasted power of its own.

Gouts of flame leapt up from the walls at regular intervals, illuminating everything in a red-orange glow—perhaps it was simply because of this that everything seemed to be various shades of rust, mottled crimsons and browns and oranges painting everything in slow decay. Massive statues loomed, towering over the rest of the chamber—or, Obi-Wan realized, they were what  _ looked _ like massive statues. His mind flitted back to the automaton he’d watched hurl itself into the depths of the moon’s atmosphere—these were broken-down, dormant copies of that droid, derelict mining units. Once he’d made the connection, he felt an uneasy shiver pass down his spine—the flickering light from the spurting flames along the walls gave the droids the appearance of spasming movements, their shadows dancing along the duracrete floor.

Craning his neck, he looked up at the nearest defunct mining droid and saw that there actually  _ was _ movement. Smaller units flitted across the hulk’s outer skin, chittering to each other and picking away at flakes of rust like so many flies on the hide of some animal.  _ Scavenger units _ , he supposed,  _ to harvest parts. _ He knew the mining droids couldn’t feel anything, but part of him shuddered in sympathy—surely dumping the things into the moon’s gravity would be a more dignified ending than this.

As he picked his way into the chamber, the occasional bit of debris crunching under his feet, Obi-Wan swept his perceptions outward. The person he’d chased down here was no longer running—they were somewhere in here with him. Beyond that, though, he couldn’t narrow their location down. The low light, the unnerving mechanical hulks above him, and the oily chill leaking down the back of his neck like petroleum all pelted at his concentration, frustrating his ability to home in on his target.

_ Well, one thing I’m  _ not _ going to do is play cat-and-mouse with him for an hour.  _ For all he knew, this person was intimately familiar with whatever dregs of Stratum Apolune he’d chased them to—if this turned into him hunting them, it would very likely end with him shot in the back. No, he had to make this person come to  _ him _ .

Repressing the nervousness the giant wrecks inspired within him— _ It’s not going to come alive, Kenobi, for pity’s sake _ —he flattened himself against the leg of the nearest dormant titan, flakes of rust showering down upon him from the scavengers above. He cast his eyes upward, focusing on one buzzing droid in particular as it darted away from its host for a moment. With one swift motion, Obi-Wan swept his hand through the air, extending his reach with the Force and grasping onto the droid. Its motors whirred in protest and its chittering gibberish increased in volume, reverberating against the nearby metal.

The Jedi let it hang there, squealing, for several seconds. Then, he hurled it outward, letting it shatter against another dead automaton with an almighty crash.

As if spooked, the droid-gnats that hummed above him scattered, either ducking through holes in their host’s chassis or heading for the far reaches of the chamber. Obi-Wan simply stood in the shadow of the beast, breathing slowly, doing his best not to make a sound.

When over a minute had passed without his target’s presence shifting, he prepared to take up a new position and try again. But just as he raised his left foot, he paused, a sharp intake of breath happening before he could stop it.

They were on the move.

Fewer scavengers above him meant he was able to better concentrate—he could feel his quarry crossing the chamber, headed for the site of the fallen droid’s demise. Carefully, Obi-Wan began a counterrotation, easing himself around the hulk that hid him. As he rounded the far side of the mining droid, he squinted toward the place he’d thrown his bait.

Sure enough. Headed toward that spot, their back to him, was the malevolent presence he’d trailed here.

Obi-Wan eased himself forward, flicking regular glances down at his boots to make sure he wasn’t about to step on a piece of rusted debris. The silhouette of his mysterious friend stood several dozen meters away, looking down at the fallen droid. Reaching out, Obi-Wan could detect wariness, but also caution. Whoever this was wasn’t moving.

He was close now—a dozen paces away and closing. No more shadows to give him cover.  _ Time to move.  _ Summoning a bolt of energy, the Jedi prepared to knock the silhouette unconscious.

And then, just as he was preparing to let go, they turned around.

It was a face that was both a stranger’s and utterly familiar—one he’d never seen before and one he’d seen hundreds of times.

A Confederacy-standard human clone.

A blaster pistol was in the clone’s hand and already blooming with scarlet plasma—Obi-Wan couldn’t have deflected it even if he’d had his lightsaber, so he threw himself into a roll, simultaneously releasing his summoned Force power in a wild blast. Judging from the sudden buzzing above, it had hit a cluster of scavengers rather than the clone; just as well, because Obi-Wan was springing upward from his roll to barrel into him, driving a shoulder into his abdomen.

As the blaster clattered to the floor, the clone fell backward with a sharp exhalation, then kicked out at the Jedi with a metal-tipped boot. Obi-Wan twisted to the side, the strike landing on his thigh with bruising power but missing his kneecap; pivoting, he launched a punch at the clone’s face, only to find his hand blocked by an armored gauntlet.

His fingers struck the plate with a  _ crack _ —crying out, Obi-Wan immediately disengaged, simultaneously trying to determine if he’d broken his hand and using the Force to throw the clone’s fallen blaster across the chamber. Another kick came his way, this one aimed at his solar plexus, and he only just managed to hurl himself backward.

_ I am never, _ he thought to himself as he reached out and hurled a wayward scavenger at the clone’s head,  _ leaving my lightsaber behind _ —the clone ducked, the droid sailing harmlessly over his head— _ again. _

With an almighty roar, the clone dove at the Jedi in a flying tackle. Too late to avoid it, Obi-Wan could only extend a hasty Force cushion behind him before his spine was driven into duracrete.

_ The others had better be enjoying themselves.  _ With a roar of his own, he shoved the clone off him, staggered to his feet, and promptly tripped.

 

* * *

 

_ Hope the bastard is enjoying himself _ , Anakin thought, checking his chronometer. It had been a good fifteen minutes since Obi-Wan had left him to fend for himself yet again, and now some Aqualish Serennan noble was talking his ear off about the par _ tic _ ular vintage of wine they were serving at this ball, and how it was simply  _ terrible _ that General Kenobi and his friends couldn’t have been here last year when they had a truly special year brought out to drink, and what  _ was _ the process of importing food and drink to Coruscant like, anyway?

He was in the midst of summoning his umpteenth half-hearted monosyllable when a familiar presence approached him from behind. “Oh, how rude of me, I haven’t introduced you yet! Jesmyn, this is Anakin Skywalker—Anakin, this is Jesmyn.”

Relief flooding through him, Anakin told the Aqualish he’d love to resume the conversation another time but Madame Jinn probably had some urgent diplomatic business to discuss. As the noble reluctantly turned away to harass a serving droid, the Jedi turned to Qui-Gon and her new companion and gave them a rueful look. “Took you long enough.”

“My apologies for keeping her attention,” the Arkanian said, extending their hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Anakin Skywalker. Pleased to meet you.”

“Can’t say the same about you,” he replied, extending his mechanical hand to grip their chalk-white fingers, “but likewise.”

“Jesmyn is the Palace Droidsmith,” Qui-Gon informed him, “and I’m sure you two would have a  _ lovely _ time talking about machines together.”

“That hand of yours, for starters,” Jesmyn said, turning his steel fingers over in their hand and studying them. “The articulation on these fingers could be substantially improved with just some replacement parts, they’re at least two years out of date.”

“Well, that’s when I got her installed,” he replied, unsure whether he should feel defensive or impressed. “Always worked well enough for me.”

“Oh, I’m not implying the Republic military doesn’t do their job, of course,” they said, releasing his grip. “But there are always improvements to be made. Maybe you can stop by my workshop before you go?”

Unconsciously flexing the fingers, he nodded and decided to smile. “Any friend of Qui-Gon’s is a friend of mine.”

“Yes, she and I were just talking about that,” Jesmyn replied, raising an eyebrow. “Curious how she’s such good friends with you and the general when she’s only known you for—”

“And where  _ is _ Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon cut in. Anakin could barely suppress a smirk—it was the closest he’d ever seen her to being flustered, though her voice was smooth as ever. “Get lost on his way to the bar?”

“Oh, he was here, all right. Then he told me to keep an eye on Dooku and Lorian and took off.”

Concern darkened his friend’s face. “And did you?”

“Yeah, sure, they’re over there,” he replied, pointing toward the other side of the room—the pair were actually dancing, an activity that didn’t quite seem suited for the Count’s temperament. His gracefulness was not compromised, however—he and the Viscount revolved across the floor as if in one fluid motion.

Any other time, he was pretty sure Qui-Gon would have enjoyed taking in the sight for a little bit; now, she simply looked him in the eye, worry starting to form. “And how long ago was this?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen maybe.” He frowned. “I mean, I’m sure he can handle himself, he would have brought us along otherwise—”

A sudden flare of alarm shot through his awareness. Whirling around, he saw someone burst through the main entrance and onto the dancefloor, waving his arms and shouting.

That someone—though the black eye made it kinda hard to tell—appeared to be Obi-Wan. 

“Oh dear,” sighed Qui-Gon. “And things were going so well.”

The music sputtered to silence, conversations wilting as everyone in the room turned to stare at Obi-Wan stumbling his way across the floor. Dooku, his voice thundering, began, “General Kenobi, what is the meaning of—” Then, he saw the Jedi’s face and clamped his mouth shut.

Flicking a brief glance over at the bar to confirm that his fellow Jedi were still there, Obi-Wan then turned to Dooku. Panting, he managed, “Clone . . . was on the platform. We need . . . a fast ship.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, to Anakin’s right, Qui-Gon cleared her throat.

Holding up her free hand, she waved the set of keys that dangled from her fingers. “General, I believe this could be of service.”

 

* * *

 

Without bothering to ask permission, Obi-Wan snatched their lightsabers from the security guard who’d claimed them several hours ago as he and Anakin pelted for the landing platform. “Man, what  _ happened _ to you?” Anakin asked, sprinting evenly while his master did his best not to favor a bad leg. “I thought Master Drallig taught hand-to-hand lessons—”

“Forget it,” Obi-Wan panted, veering hard to the right and toward an outer balcony. “We’ve probably already lost them, we’d better hope that contraption of Qui-Gon’s has a decent sensor suite.”

“Did you see the ship they took off in?”

“Looked like one of those vulture fighters they’ve been favoring lately, gods know how they sneaked it into the atmosphere.”

Snorting at this bit of his wife’s vocabulary migrating elsewhere, Anakin jingled the keys in his flesh hand. “Well, look on the bright side. I’ve  _ always  _ wanted to fly this thing.”


	31. Unexpected Guests

Twilight had descended upon the royal city of Theed—bands of orange and purple streaked throughout the sky, and streetlamps running up and down the city’s stonework plazas twinkled in the relative darkness. The University of Theed’s Grand Hall stood at the end of one such plaza, rising into the air with a sense of imposing authority. Great pillars held its roof aloft; between each pair of columns, a shimmering holographic banner flickered in the evening breeze. 

Raymus Antilles gazed intently at the steps leading into the hall’s impressive archway entrance. Ascending the steps were clusters of people—some paired off into couples, others huddled in groups, most flanked by a bodyguard or two. All were dressed in formal attire—flowing gowns that cascaded down the stairs behind their wearers, or perfectly tailored tuxedos. 

Tugging at the cuffs of his own suit, Raymus sighed deeply and leaned back in the driver’s seat of the parked landspeeder. In the passenger seat beside him, Ellis Korven poked somewhat aimlessly at a collection of datapads and computer screens. 

“Something wrong?” she asked, not turning to look at Raymus. 

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. Scanning out the forward viewport of the speeder, he swept his view across the rows of other parked vehicles before turning back to the Clawdite next to him. “I mean, I was always a little nervous for tonight, but now. . .” He hesitated a moment, letting the words hang in the air. “Now I have a really bad feeling about this.” 

“Hey, for what it’s worth,” Ellis began, dropping one of the datapads into her lap and turning to look at Raymus, “Padmé  _ has  _ done this sort of thing before.”

“Oh yeah,” Raymus droned, rolling his eyes. “That makes me feel a  _ lot  _ better.” 

“Well, I think we’re pretty committed at this point,” Ellis said, gesturing to her array of datapads. “Windu’s in position, the boat’s in position . . . hell, Liz is boxed up in the vault. It’s not like we can back out now.” 

Raymus nodded slightly—she had a point, after all—and turned back to face the university building.

What he saw made his stomach drop. 

“You sure we’re committed?” he asked aloud, more to himself than his Clawdite companion. Raising a pointed finger, he gestured out the window. ”Cause those new party guests . . . well, we might want to reconsider things.”

Leaning forward, Ellis peered past Raymus and out the driver’s side window. As her eyes fell upon the same sight his had, they shot open. “Oh, son of a bitch.”

“Yeah.” The word left the pilot’s mouth in a disconnected monotone as his mind struggled to catch up to what his body was doing. A few moments later, he was raising a commlink to his mouth. “Padmé,” he spoke into the device, trying his best not to sound panicked. “We have a problem.”

 

* * *

  
  


The university’s Grand Hall seemed at once cavernous and cramped—bracketed by multistory windows and impressive columns, floored with polished stone and shrouded by a vaulted ceiling, the massive banquet room was packed with tables and the constant bustle of people milling about and socializing. 

It felt, Padmé thought, somewhat like Jira Grotto Bazaar back on Had Abbadon.  _ Except everyone here is loaded. And can leave whenever they want. And they haven’t been wearing the same clothes for three weeks. Okay, maybe it’s not like Jira Grotta at all.  _

“Seems pretty expensive,” she muttered, sweeping her eyes across the room—her gaze fell on a flowing gown embroidered with brilliant silver threads, and she tugged uncomfortably at her own dress. Though she’d dressed appropriately for the occasion, the attire she’d chosen was cut for function over form. 

Continuing her examination of the room, she carried her line of sight past the perfectly pressed tablecloths and impeccably dressed waiters—sentient staff, not droids, she noticed. “I thought the goal was to raise money,” she said in a half whisper, continuing her earlier thought, “not spend it.” 

“Oh, they’ll make money,” a voice to her left murmured in return. Bail Organa, whose regal pose Padmé saw as an attempt to mask an underlying tension, clasped his hands behind his flowing cape as he too surveyed the room. “It’s several thousand credits a plate, and the food was donated by a local restaurant. Most of the waitstaff are volunteering their time, and the university doesn’t have to pay to use a space they already own.”

“Makes sense, “ she replied with a shrug. “Well, shall we?” She met Bail’s gaze, and the gaze beyond his—Marsalis Kazan stood at Bail’s left side, completing the trio of senator and security guards. 

The two men nodded, and the group glided forward into the banquet crowd. With some effort, Padmé plastered a polite smile on her face—being forced to schmooze with the galaxy’s elite was perhaps her least favorite part of running security for a politician. As they bumped into a pair of Quarrens that Bail apparently knew, she allowed the senator to step forward as she and Kazan planted themselves a pace behind him.

“You look miserable,” the grizzled man whispered as he snatched a wine glass off the tray of a passing waiter. “You didn’t have to come to this part, you know.” He raised the glass to his lips with a chuckle. 

“I did, actually,” she whispered back. “It’s called establishing an alibi. Gotta get some face time in.” 

This pattern continued for several minutes—walking in step with Bail, then falling behind him as he shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with this noble or that dignitary or another university faculty member. Boredom was beginning to set in, but she knew she still had several minutes to kill before the next phase of the evening’s plan. 

She eyed a passing tray of wine glasses, then immediately scolded herself for doing so— _ No drinks, not until you pull this off.  _

A crackle in her ear pulled her back into the moment. The commlink resting there, clearly visible to any outside observer but justified by the fact that she was on security detail, had come to life with the voice of Raymus Antilles. 

“ _ Padmé, we have a problem.”  _

It took great willpower not to let the sudden sense of alarm cross her face. Nodding politely at a passing couple, she curled her lips into a tense smile, forcing herself to calm down.  _ It’s fine,  _ she thought.  _ This is Raymus talking, ‘problem’ could mean anything. _

_ “Padmé, get to somewhere you can talk.”  _ the commlink buzzed again.  _ “We need to call this off.”  _

That got her attention. Placing a hand on Kazan’s shoulder, she spat out an “excuse me” and spun on a heel, disappearing into the crowd. She bobbed and weaved between clusters of conversing people, careful not to trip on the trailing gowns and making sure to duck beneath the raised trays of hors d'oeuvres carried by the waitstaff. A hastily muttered “sorry!” left her mouth as she collided with a Twi’lek wearing ornate gilded jewelry around her headtails. 

_ “Come in, Padmé. Please respond. Just like . . . cough if you can hear me or something, I don’t know,”  _ the voice of Raymus crackled in her ear. As she danced around a huddled group of Neimoidians, Padmé finally spotted a small nook between a column and the wall that offered some semblance of privacy. Darting between a pair of droids conversing in binary, she ducked into the nook.

“ _ Padmé!” _

“What?!” she hissed, bringing a hand to her right ear and hunching over slightly, attempting to hide behind the column. 

Raymus spoke in snappy, panicked phrases. “ _ New arrivals. Check the entrance.”  _

Raising an eyebrow, Padmé placed a hand on the towering column and leaned out to inspect the banquet hall. At that moment, the double doors at the chamber’s entrance swung open.

Four identically dressed individuals marched into the room, locked into a perfect square formation. They were clothed in scarlet robes that draped from their shoulders to the floor, and each bore a gently curving enclosed helmet with a black visor cut across the eyes. Their silver staves were held perfectly perpendicular to the floor as they seemed to glide across it, their robes concealing the movements of their boots against the polished stone. 

Padmé swore under her breath, then tapped her earpiece commlink. “Thanks for the heads up, I’m on it.”

She slid out from behind the pillar, smoothing the front of her dress with her hands. Weaving back into the banquet crowd at an even quicker pace than she had left it, she hurriedly made her way back toward Bail. 

It wasn’t long before she spotted him. He was moving between conversations—she could interrupt him without drawing attention, if she got there fast enough. She whispered a curse when he stopped briefly, though a sigh of relief followed when she realized it was just to pluck a drink off a waiter’s tray. 

WIthin moments, she arrived at the senator’s side. She snatched the arm not holding a drink and gave it a light tug, at the same time whispering in his direction: “Follow me. We need to talk.” An icy glare at Kazan seemed to get her intended message across— _ stay back, and don’t let anyone bother us. _

When they’d made their way back to the nook behind the column, she yanked Bail into it and leaned in close. “Look back toward the front door. Don’t freak out.” 

He did as instructed, eyeing the red-robed guards flanking each side of the hall’s main entrance. His head turned as he tracked the other pair of guards moving about the room—when Bail’s eyes returned to meet Padmé’s, his expression seemed more thoughtful than concerned. 

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” she whispered. 

His voice was a good deal calmer than hers. “What do you think it is?” 

“The Chancellor’s guards.” The words left her mouth in a shaky vibrato. “Is Palpatine  _ here?”  _

“He will be soon,” Bail replied, peeking out of the nook once again. “They’re sweeping the room to make sure it’s safe.” 

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Padmé muttered,. “You heard him in the last Senate session. He was too busy, he wasn’t leaving Coruscant. How is he here?” 

“It’s a smart move.”

“ _ What?”  _

“A surprise visit home. Boosts support with the constituents,” Bail said with a shrug, absentmindedly leaning back out to observe the banquet hall. “Good optics for the wider galaxy too. He’s a wartime chancellor, this shows he can focus on something other than the conflict.”

“ _ Bail, _ ” she hissed, grabbing the senator’s shoulder and pulling his attention back to her. “You can gush over Palpatine’s smart politics later. Right now we need to come up with a new plan.” 

He cocked his head to one side. “New plan? No, we keep going.” 

At this, she reached up to rub her temples. She felt as though she’d run out of ways to react to her employer. “You want me to”—she paused, then lowered her voice as a group of people strolled by—”steal a bunch of sealed records right out from underneath him?” 

Bail inhaled sharply, then let the breath out as a deep sigh. “Padmé, this war is keeping him in office. As long as we’re in it, he’s going to get reelected.”

“There are term limits—”

“If you think he’s above having those removed, you’re kidding yourself,” he interrupted. “Besides, he’s in the middle of finishing  _ my  _ term. He’s still eligible for a full three. Fifteen years, Padmé, and that’s if he steps down once he’s reached the limit. Can the Republic take fifteen more years of this?” 

She didn’t react. She didn’t have to, she knew—they were both well aware of the answer.

He continued in a low whisper. “The Senate won’t vote him out of office unless we give them a reason to. Tonight is our chance to find that reason.” Pausing, he glanced at his wrist chronometer. “You’d better get going.” Then, gesturing back out to the banquet hall: “I’ll keep them busy up here.” 

She nodded. “Good luck.” 

“You too.” 

With a flourish of his cape, Bail Organa ducked out of the nook and disappeared back into the banquet crowd. After a few moments had passed, Padmé did likewise—though she stayed on the edge of the sea of people. Scanning the room, she eyed the Chancellor’s guards—two remained flanking the main door, frozen like statues; the others had finished their sweep of the room and had settled near the front, at the base of an elevated speaking platform. 

Her eyes darted back and forth, finally settling on a side exit marked with signs for the refresher unit. Smoothing the front of her dress with her hands, she made way for the exit—she could feel her heart rate spike as she took her first step. 

_ Okay, Padmé. Here we go. _

 

* * *

  
  


Mace Windu stood cloaked in shadow, braced against the damp stone wall of the university’s sub basement corridor. The lights were barely adequate for the space—even intervals of total darkness striped the hallway like the distance markers on a scramball field. It was in one of these stripes of shadow that Mace had chosen to hide himself.

As the  _ swoosh  _ of a door echoed through the quiet corridor, he made an effort to sink further into the shadow, at the same time reaching out through the Force to prod at whoever was approaching. He recognized the aura immediately—though as its owner stepped into the light, her appearance was somewhat unfamiliar. 

“You’re late,” he grumbled at a uniformed Padmé Amidala—she wore the same security uniform he did, complete with leather armor padding and a fitted cap. From beneath hers hung a head of brilliant red hair. 

“Ran into a problem up top,” she said flatly, moving past him as she spoke—he pushed himself away from the wall and fell into stride alongside her. “Palpatine is here.” 

“And we’re still doing this?” he asked. Silently, he cursed the Force for not bothering to warn him of the Chancellor’s presence. 

“Bail insisted we do,” Padmé replied, keeping her gaze locked forward down the hall. She glanced at the chronometer on her wrist. “Besides, Liz will be at the door soon. We don’t have much of a choice.” 

Mace said nothing for a moment, allowing his silence to serve as tacit agreement. He wanted to say that Padmé’s boss was a crazy son of a bitch— _ but she probably already knows that.  _

“So,” he finally said as they rounded a corner in the corridor. “Red wig?” 

She shot a grin at him. “Old grifter’s trick. ‘They’re gonna remember  _ something  _ about you. Best make it obvious, and best make it wrong.’” 

“Hm?” 

“If we get spotted, cops will be after a security guard with red hair. Thing is, once I ditch the wig she doesn’t exist.”  

A chuckle escaped his lips. “Smart. Suppose I should have covered the shaved head” 

It was at that moment the pair arrived at a strangely modern door set into the aged stone wall. Shining metal and transparisteel cast a clinical white light into the hallway—Padmé came to a stop, and Mace alongside her.

She took another glance at her wrist chronometer. “Once we’re in there we’ll have to move pretty quickly. Just don’t act like you’re rushing. You got the keycard?” 

He nodded, tapping a pocket on the left sleeve of his uniform. “You got the passcode?” 

She nodded back. “Let’s do this.” 

As they stepped in front of the door, it slid aside automatically, bathing them in the harsh light—Mace squinted as his eyes adjusted to the new brightness. The droid seated at the reception desk straightened up slightly as they entered. Its bony digits were clasped together contemplatively, and its skeletal form turned to follow Padmé and Mace as they made a beeline for the first door. 

Mace watched silently as Padmé leaned down to the keypad and began poking at it; a moment later, it chimed a rising two note tune and the first door to the vault slid aside. Out of the corner of his eye, Mace watched as the reception droid turned back to face the lobby entrance—evidently satisfied with their presence, it unclasped its woven fingers and leaned back in the desk chair. 

“Was worried there for a sec,” Padmé mumbled as the first door slammed shut behind them, sealing them in to the first of two security airlocks. The space was a nondescript, flat metal box lit directly overhead by harsh fluorescents. Though Mace felt unsettled by it, Padmé seemed all business. “Keycard?” 

Extracting the card from its place on his sleeve, Mace tapped it against the glowing red ring to the left of the second vault door. The ring flashed green and the second door slid aside, prompting the Jedi to let out a breath he hadn’t meant to be holding. 

“Alright, Liz,”  Padmé said—it was at this point Mace realized she was probably talking to herself, not him—”you’re up.” 

For what felt like an eternity but was probably no more than thirty seconds, nothing happened. Mace slowly turned to gaze at Padmé, who was impatiently tapping a finger against her wrist chronometer. “Is there a . . . time limit to being in here?” he asked. “We’re not going to get locked in for taking too long to open this door, are we?” 

“We might.” The words were spoken without emotion, though Mace’s own senses felt waves of fear rolling off of Padmé. He briefly considered pushing back with calmness, then realized he had none to give. 

At that moment, the final vault door  _ whooshed  _ open. Just over the threshold was Padmé’s droid—she stood with one arm outstretched, the proffered hand containing part of the droid’s other arm. “Sorry I’m late,” she buzzed. “My gods damned arm is broken.” 

Padmé chuckled, snatching the disconnected forearm from the droid and stepping into the vault. “It helps if you turn the magnet back on.” Mace watched as the woman fiddled with the droid limb for a moment—suddenly, it shot out of her hand and snapped back in place onto Liz’s right elbow. 

The droid flexed the reattached hand, then nodded with satisfaction. “Thanks.” 

Forcing himself to dismiss the strange interaction between robot and master, Mace took a step into the vault, the door sliding shut behind him as he did. The floor stretched out before him, lit in even intervals by white lights set directly into its metallic grey surface. Row upon row of shelving extended into the vault like a great library—at the end of each aisle, a holographic display flickered with information about what each shelf contained. There appeared to be hundreds of rows to pore over, and no general directory in sight. He sighed. This was going to take time. Time they didn’t have. 

The Jedi strolled down the central walkway of the vault, scanning the data labels on the endcap of each shelving row. He stretched out into the Force to enhance his senses as he marched along the backlit floor, his eyes bouncing from one display to another in the hopes that one might jump out at him. 

When one finally did, it was not for the reasons he was expecting. He froze for a moment, then took a step closer to the flickering holographic screen. 

“Did you find something?” Padmé half shouted from several paces away—before long, she was jogging to catch up to Mace. 

**University of Theed, College of Science, Chemistry Department, Narcotics Research Program** blinked across the display. He reached out and tapped the flashing text; the screen transformed in response to his input.  **Contents: glitterstim spice, ixetal cilona, aerosolized hexacodone . . .**

“Ixetal cilona?” he heard a voice struggle to pronounce just behind him—Padmé had evidently been reading over his shoulder. 

“Death sticks,” he replied flatly. “It’s the main ingredient in death sticks.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “They teach you that in Hutt Space?”  He clenched his jaw and glared back at her—raising her hands in surrender, she took a step back. “Sorry I asked,” she mumbled. “Just trying to relieve some—”

Suddenly, they were blinded by a great flash of red light; an equally harsh noise pierced the air, as though someone had torn through a sheet of metal.

When Mace opened his eyes, he was greeted by a wall of red light blocking the entrance to the archive aisle before him. He spun around on a heel to witness a similar sight throughout the vault—cascading down the rows of shelving were shimmering crimson barriers snappnig into existence in front of each row’s entrance. They were cut off from the vault’s contents, now only free to traverse the central walkway. 

In an instant, Mace’s lightsaber—which he had up to this point concealed in his right sleeve—was in his hand, the violet blade springing to life with a sharp  _ snap-hiss.  _ He brought the weapon to the ready and pivoted on one foot, scanning the vault for any apparent threats. When it was evident they were still alone, he relaxed his stance and lowered the lightsaber, though he kept it powered on. 

“They make those in purple?” Beside him, Padmé was staring at his laser sword, a bemused expression on her face. 

“ _ I _ make them in purple,” he replied flatly—this seemed to satisfy her, she nodded slightly and raised a hand to her right ear. 

“Why the hell didn’t you mention these laser gates, Raymus?” she asked into her commlink.

“ _ What laser gates?”  _ came the reply in Mace’s ear; she’d evidently made the call on the group’s general channel. 

“These red energy barriers just appeared over every single aisle entrance in the vault. We can’t get to any of the shelves.” 

_ “Didn’t see anything like that when I was down there, ma’am,”  _ Antilles replied. 

Another voice—the Clawdite, Ellis—piped up on the comm. “ _ Could be some sort of after-hours security feature?”  _

“I don’t care what they’re for,” Padmé snapped. “We just need a way to get past them.”

Mace turned back to face the crimson barrier, his eyes darting between it and the blade of his lightsaber. Flourishing the weapon into a reverse grip, he wound up his arm and whacked the energy gate with the violet blade.

A sharp  _ sizzle  _ pierced his ears, and sparks sprayed away from the gate as it rippled slightly. The vibration carried up the blade of Mace’s saber, rattling the hilt in his palm. “Not getting in that way,” he remarked dryly, shutting off the lightsaber and clipping it to the belt of his stolen security uniform.  

“Excuse me!” 

The voice that echoed throughout the cavernous vault was robotic, though decidedly not the voice of Padmé’s droid. It was deeper, harsher—almost threatening, Mace thought. He whirled around to face the source of the speech, and was greeted with the sight of a seven-foot tall, skeletal droid standing just inside the vault entrance. 

Its eyes glowed a piercing white as it stepped forward—balling its left hand into a fist, the droid smacked a panel beside the vault door. It shut behind the droid, an additional, thicker blast door closing along with it.

Mace glanced at Padmé, then at Liz, then back at this new arrival. It marched forward in their direction, each step of its bony structure  _ clanking  _ against the floor. The underlighting of the vault cast an eerie shadow against the robot as it moved toward them. Mace heard a harsh whir as the droid’s vocabulator spun up again.

“I’m going to need to see some identification.”

 

* * *

 

Bail Organa lowered himself into the dining chair with a deliberate exhalation—he was breathing in a measured, even rhythm in an attempt to calm his ever-increasing heart rate. 

Around the dining room, banquet guests were settling into their chairs around the circular dining tables. Each table was draped in a pristine white cloth and topped with eight place settings of fine silverware. Most tables were at capacity. Bail’s was not. 

Whoever had done up the seating chart held a bit of a grudge, Bail had to assume. Only he and Kazan sat at it; the remaining six seats were rather noticeably unoccupied. This drew attention from those seated at neighboring tables—of those staring, some seemed amused while others were clearly suffering from secondhand embarrassment. Bail shrugged it all off, reaching for the wine glass in front of him. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

The question came as he was halfway through a sip of wine—Bail sputtered slightly as he swallowed the drink, then gestured with his free hand to the empty seat beside him. A Twi’lek eased into the chair with a grateful nod—her lavender lekku, wrapped around her neck like a scarf and adorned with golden jewelry, twinkled in the banquet hall’s light.

“Tyyria Nox,” the Twi’lek said, extending her right hand toward Bail. The senator shook it, leaning back somewhat in trepidation—the woman was rather awkwardly seated, facing him instead of the dining table. 

“Bail Organa.” 

“I know,” she replied, eyes wide. “I’m a bit of a fan.” 

He chuckled as he let go of her hand, staring down into the wine glass as he gave it a swirl. “That’s funny.” 

“It’s not a joke,” Tyyria replied matter-of-factly as she shuffled in her seat to face the table. 

“I don’t have ‘fans,’ Miss Nox. All anyone knows about me is that I started the Clone Wars.”

The Twi’lek gave a slight shrug. “That is one interpretation of what happened, yes.” 

Bail raised an eyebrow and briefly considered pressing further— _ I have to wonder what  _ her  _ interpretation is,  _ he thought—but instead shook his head and moved to change the subject. “Well, I’m in dire need of dining companions, so I’ll take it.” When the new arrival chuckled politely, he smiled with genuine warmth. Any distraction from what was going on below was welcome, and he couldn’t risk a certain petty satisfaction— _ I’ve got a companion after all, despite best efforts otherwise. _

“So . . . Tyyria,” he began, trying out the Twi’lek’s given name to see if she objected; when she didn’t, he continued, “what do you do for a living?” 

“I’m a librarian.”  
“Ah, here at the university?” _Makes sense that she’s here, I suppose._

She shook her head. “The Royal Library, actually. I work at the reference desk.” 

At this, Bail’s eyes widened. He leaned forward slightly, attempting to put his body between Tyyria and Kazan—his security guard had, after all, visited the very same library in search of dirt on Palpatine. Bail couldn’t dismiss the possibility that this Twi’lek had recognized him and was coming to confront them about it. He would have to choose his next words carefully, he knew.

“And what brings you to the banquet this evening?” 

Before she could answer, the murmur of conversation in the banquet hall ceased to exist. Bail scanned the room, searching for a reason that everyone had gone silent. He quickly found it—an elderly man in a suit had approached the speaking podium set on an elevated platform at one end of the room. 

“Esteemed guests of the University of Theed,” the man began, his voice amplified by a microphone set into the podium, “if I could have your attention for a moment. We’ve been graced with the presence of a very special surprise guest.” He backed away from the microphone for a moment, clearing his throat before continuing. “Please welcome to the platform a university alumnus, our former governor, our representative in the Senate . . . our Chancellor, Palpatine!” 

A polite applause cascaded throughout the room as the old man backed away from the podium. In his place appeared the robed figure of Palpatine, bracketed on either side by a red-robed guard. Palpatine stretched a hand out to the crowd, motioning for them to quiet—though Bail could see the man’s true feelings on his face.  _ Bastard loves the attention.  _

“Thank you, thank you.” As the crowd settled, Palpatine picked up a small stack of notecards off the podium, gazing at them intently. He paused as if to consider their contents—then, with a shake of his head, he slipped the notecards into a pocket.

“You deserve better than notecards,” he said with a warm smile, placing both hands on the podium and leaning forward slightly. In the seat behind him, Bail heard Kazan scoff.

“Think he planned that?” the security guard whispered.

“Oh, most definitely,” Bail replied. As he heard Palpatine take a deep breath, the senator motioned for Kazan to be quiet—for better or worse, he wanted to hear what the chancellor had to say. 

“My political opponents will tell you I shouldn’t be here right now,” Palpatine said. “‘We’re at war. It’s a waste of time. He should focus on the conflict.’ But this”—he jabbed a finger down onto the podium—”the work that goes on here, is just as important as the war.” He stood up straight, motioning sharply with his right hand as he spoke. “In fact, I would argue that a well-educated Republic is our first line of defense against the dangerous and divisive ideals of the so-called Confederacy.” His face curled as he spat out the last word, and the room filled with applause. 

“These divisive ideals are why the Confederacy can never truly replace the Republic. They are a collective of greedy corporations. They wish for a change in the status quo, but offer no solutions to the problems they say run rampant in the galaxy.

“The Republic stands in contrast to this. We are a central pillar of galactic stability.” He spread his arms wide, raising his hands to the sky. “You need only look around you, at this great institution, for proof of that fact. This university. Theed Palace. The Senate building back on Coruscant. These institutions exist as they have existed for centuries: unwavering monuments to the might of this Republic . . . because of  _ you _ .”

At this, Bail raised an eyebrow.  _ Where is he going with this? _

Palpatine lowered his voice, leaning closer to the podium microphone. “Your commitment to the Republic is what keeps it strong. Your support of the Republic is how we will win this war. Your loyalty to the Republic is how our legacy will live on.”

An involuntary shudder worked its way up Bail’s spine as another wave of applause swept the room.  _ ‘Our legacy’?  _ he thought, staring with concern up at the chancellor. As Palpatine’s gaze swept across the room, Bail quickly stared down in his lap—he found himself worried that the man had briefly caught his eye. After a moment, he glanced back upward, but at his new friend rather than the speaker. Tyyria’s brow was furrowed in worry, or concentration, or both—either way, she didn’t look much more pleased than Bail about the direction things were going.  _ So I’m not paranoid. Or she is too.  _ Shaking his head, he redirected his attention to the Chancellor. 

“On behalf of the University of Theed, thank you for coming tonight. Thank you for your commitment to the Republic. Without your loyalty, we could not do this.” Palpatine took a deep breath and seemed to relax a bit. Then, picking up a glass perched at the edge of the podium, he held it out in front of him. “Enjoy the food. Enjoy the wine . . . I promise, it is excellent”—this elicited a chuckle from most of the banquet hall. 

Then, he raised the wine glass in the air. “To loyalty.”

The echoed chorus of hundreds of voices rang throughout the room: “To loyalty!” 

Bail’s stomach turned as he raised his own glass to his lips and threw back its entire contents in one nervous gulp. 


	32. Storm Chasing

“Okay, got a reading on sensors, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“I  _ already  _ don’t like it,” Obi-Wan shot back, “how much worse could it get?”

“Well,” replied his apprentice, “looks like they’re headed for . . . that.” He hauled the steering yoke to port, and Obi-Wan saw exactly what he meant.

In the distance, big enough that it could be seen all the way from where they were, was a deep-violet mass hovering in the sky. If Obi-Wan squinted, he could see an occasional flash of something bright and white flicker through it. “A storm system? How far out is it?”

“Well,” said Anakin, pushing forward on the throttle, “let’s just say it’s far enough out that for it to already look this big, it must be huge.”

“So it’s a suicide run, then. Either they outrun us or we all go down in a massive storm system.” Checking his restraints again, the general sighed. “Well, they haven’t changed their playbook, give them that. At that rate we’re going, do you think we can catch them before they make it in?”

“Well, we’re definitely faster all factors being equal,” replied Anakin, the corner of his mouth twitching in what Obi-Wan wasn’t sure was a repressed grin or a nervous tic.

“I don’t like that qualification.”

“We’re faster, sure, but—”

At that moment, the ship bucked as though a massive hand had backhanded it across the bow. Anakin wrenched it back to its original trajectory, swearing—Obi-Wan could feel the effort it took, the ship straining against a sudden invisible barrier. Finally, a few seconds later, the pressure relented; Anakin, still pulling as hard as he could to starboard, almost launched them into a hairpin curve back to Stratum Apolune, hauling the yoke back in line at the last instant.

Exhaling deeply, he finished, “But that. This thing does  _ not _ appreciate high winds. It’s meant for doing high speeds in optimal weather, not chugging through storms.”

“So what just happened,” Obi-Wan said, already knowing the answer, “is only going to get worse the closer they get to that storm.”

“I mean, I’m sure we can tough it out—”

Another blast of wind hit them, this one even harder; Anakin had been ready for it, so rather than almost turning them in a complete semicircle, it merely buffeted at them with enough force to make a klaxon begin to blare. 

Watching the red blip of the vulture fighter start to draw further ahead on the sensor screen, Obi-Wan allowed himself to vent a little. “You  _ had _ to take the racecar. Always wanted to fly it, you said—”

“Look, you’re always telling me to focus on what is, not what could’ve been.”

Sighing, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and let his frustration go. “You’re right, my apologies.” Ahead of them, a particularly large flash shot through the storm system, turning the whole sky white. “Well, we’re not just about to turn around. If that clone gets away, the Confederacy will know we’re alerted to their presence. You’re the best pilot I know, you can handle this.”

“As touching as the vote of confidence is—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Pity this thing doesn’t have a . . .”

Shooting a glance at his master, Anakin frowned. “Okay, let’s have it, what’s the Force telling you?”

Pondering furiously, Obi-Wan didn’t answer.  _ It might work—or it might just get us both killed in the middle of a hurricane. But that’s about to happen anyway— _

“Obi-Wan, out loud, please!”

Snapping out of his reverie, Obi-Wan said, “Right. Remember when we had to form a mind-meld in order to reverse the  _ Dancer _ and shake those starfighters?”

“Kinda hard to forget, yeah.”

“Well, if we could attempt a similar connection, so I could know how you’re steering us before it happens . . .” Another gust of wind hammered at the bow. “I could do my best to counter the wind using the Force.”

He hadn’t exactly expected his apprentice to burst into laughter, but it wasn’t an uncharacteristic reaction, either. “I thought it was  _ my _ job to come up with crazy ideas like that.”

“You’ve got a better one?”

Shaking his head and still shaking with laughter, Anakin pushed forward on the throttle again. “Crazy ideas are the best ones, master, you know that.”

The red blip on the sensor screen that was the vulture fighter was now roughly centered in the middle rather than pushing up against the outer edge. They were still too far for a visual, but they were going to catch the clone. The question was . . .

“Nope,” Anakin answered, as if he’d sensed the unspoken question, “They’re gonna pierce the clouds before we can catch ‘em. You sure you wanna do this?”

_ Not remotely.  _ “Of course I am.” Exhaling slowly, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I won’t be very responsive physically while we’re linked, so we’d best hope you don’t end up needing a copilot.”

“No offense, general, but I think you trying to copilot would actively make things worse.”

Rolling his eyes behind closed lids, Obi-Wan extended his perceptions. “That’s the spirit.”

 

* * *

 

The storm clouds filled the viewport, a massive purple bruise across the darkening sky. It was miles across, extending in every direction, big enough to swallow the city of Stratum Apolune whole had it crossed its path. It was too dark for the vulture fighter to stand out against it, until another explosion of lightning inverted the color of the sky. Anakin could see the dark fleck of the fighter silhouetted against the blazing electricity for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone, plunging into the clouds.

“Here’s where the fun begins,” Anakin muttered to himself—Obi-Wan was beyond hearing—and throttled in after it.

As soon as they pierced the cloud, everything went dark, a thick blanket eliminating everything from sight. The sensor screen held true, though, the electrical interference aside—the clone ship was dead ahead and rising, trying to lose them.

Easing gradually upward—too fast and he’d risk being shoved back down again by a sudden gust of wind—he could feel the part of his mind that was actually Obi-Wan extending invisible fingers throughout the air around them, feeling where the next blow to the ship would come from.

_ There,  _ he heard his master think, and without looking away from the ship’s instruments he could see the image of a massive feather swooping toward the ship from starboard. Anakin pulled hard to the right; at the same time, he felt Obi-Wan push back in the same direction, wrestling the wind with a shield of Force energy.

Beneath them, Qui-Gon’s racing craft began to vibrate steadily and slowed, the engine still exerting considerable force just to keep them in position—but they held steady, and within several seconds the wind had dissipated.

_ That wasn’t so bad,  _ Anakin thought, ramping up their speed once more.  _ Was it? _

_ I’m all right,  _ Obi-Wan replied, though his “voice” sounded a bit shaken.  _ Wasn’t expecting it to be that strong, but I’ll be better prepared next time. _

_ Okay,  _ the younger Jedi said to himself, focusing attention back on the sensor screen,  _ they leveled off above us.  _ Taking advantage of the lack of obstacles, he pulled the ship into a sudden climb, feeling g-force press down on his chest. “Man,” he said aloud, “this thing handles really smooth when it’s not getting pummeled—”

Time slowed as another image of incoming wind flashed through his mind, again from the starboard. This time, Obi-Wan was ready—the wind broke itself against the bulwark of his shield, the ship simply twitching briefly before roaring back to full speed.

The vulture fighter hadn’t slowed—sensors showed it racing ahead of them at the edge of its maximum speed.  _ That’s funny, _ Anakin felt Obi-Wan think to himself,  _ if they’re trying to bring us down with them surely they’d just wait it out for another flare of lightning to fry us rather than gunning it for the other side.  _ The sudden alarm his master felt coursed through him also, as they both thought at once,  _ Wait a minute, how long until _ —

_ Move. _

With their consciousness pooled, they would be able to sense the next jolt of electricity before it happened—not that that precognition would do much good. Obi-Wan, Anakin could feel—in the meld they shared, his master’s strength was his—wouldn’t be able to successfully hold a shield around the entire ship that would preserve it from a direct blast of lightning. The electricity sparking through the storm system was one thing, but a concentrated bolt of it would be too much.

While they were busy worrying about this eventuality, a gust of wind slipped through Obi-Wan’s distracted fingers, slamming into the ship with the force of a battering ram. Anakin dove down, trying to mitigate the damage, and felt his master belatedly throw out a response that didn’t block the wind so much as slightly redirect it.  _ DAMN it. _

“Okay,” Anakin said out loud, not caring if Obi-Wan was conscious enough to respond or not, “I’m gonna try and pull us out of this thing, hang on.” Gripping the steering yoke with his mechanical hand hard enough to make it creak, he yanked backward, sending the ship into a climb. He could feel a faint prickling building at the back of his neck, and chose not to think about whether it was the Force whispering about an impending lightning strike.

Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed like the violet haze that floated in front of the viewport was starting to thin— _ I hope so, flying this way is like piloting a damn submarine.  _ The prickling at the back of his neck was starting to build in intensity even as the cloud diminished, and he felt Obi-Wan’s thought shoot through his own mind— _ Any moment now. _

With half his brain, Anakin urged the ship to go just a  _ little _ more faster, pleasepleaseplease; the other half, the half that was Obi-Wan, directed an urgent barrier of Force power to the rear of the racing craft.

Just as the itching on Anakin’s neck flared into a sheet of white, the ship burst into the night sky—it was still dark, but if the Jedi were to squint he could see stars overhead. Behind them, lightning flared and roared like a titanic creature, his master’s desperate shield managing to redirect the energy that shot their way. Whooping, Anakin let himself perform a gratuitous snap-roll and then brought their ship’s nose back in line with the errant vulture fighter.

That ship, Anakin was a bit startled to note, was no longer the only thing that lay ahead of them.

“Okay,” he said as they roared forward, “there’s a cluster of pretty sizable readings up ahead, that’s where they seem to be headed.” Shaking his head, he continued, “But that doesn’t make any  _ sense _ , there’s no way they could sneak capital ships down here without Cody spotting them.”

Beside him, he could feel Obi-Wan slowly coming out of his meditative trance like a particularly heavy sleeper. Slowly, the general said, “Could be . . . an improvised base.”

“But where would they even set one up?” Gritting his teeth, the younger Jedi said, “Well, we’ll find out when we catch ‘em. They only just came out of the cloud, we’re closing.”

Frowning, Obi-Wan blinked rapidly and said, “Do you sense that up ahead? It’s something big, something . . . I can’t describe it.”

“Not really, but I’m a little busy here.” He squinted into the inky sky before them. “Huh. I do  _ see _ something, though.”

Piercing the deep blues and blacks of the distant night were irregular twinkles of light—not bright white like the lightning had been, but shot through with blue and green. Nor were they flashes like the electrical bursts that had ridden the storm system; they flared to life for several seconds before dimming again. It was almost like distant settlements, each one turning its power on and then dimming down again.

The sensors chimed. Anakin flicked a glance down at them. “Wait,  _ that _ can’t be right. We’re suddenly getting massive lifeform readings just . . . floating. Up ahead.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, at last coming fully awake. “I think I might know what’s going on.”

“What?”

Putting a hand to his forehead, the general asked wearily, “I take it the vulture fighter is headed for those lights?”

“Yep.”

“Look closer.”

The twinkles were growing larger with each passing moment—they weren’t points of light anymore but lanterns floating ahead of them, taking on a tangible shape. And, Anakin could see, trailing off them like tiny bits of string were further strands of illumination. They moved back and forth, both with and against the air currents. Almost like—

“Oh. I—wow.”

Once again, the black speck of the vulture fighter had fallen within visual range. Anakin watched it zoom closer and closer to the distant lanterns, which weren’t in fact lanterns at all.

They were massive, soaring jellyfish.

 

* * *

 

Feeling the creatures wasn’t like feeling an animal—their intelligence was more displaced than that, scattered, diffused throughout their bodies rather than centralized in one place. Nevertheless, they were clearly living creatures, and had some ability to think. The primary emotion—or at least this species’ equivalent to one—that Obi-Wan felt streaming off them was mild curiosity at his Force reading brushing against them. “Some sort of colony,” he told Anakin. “They don’t necessarily  _ feel _ dangerous, but if that’s the case why would the clone be going for them?”

“Well, those tentacles seem pretty easy to crash into whether the rest of them is friendly or not.” Frowning, his apprentice punched at the sensor screen. “Also, looks like there’s something else out there. No power readings, but the ship’s picking up a lot of metal right at the center of those things.”

“Which is probably where our friend is headed,” the general finished. “Well, let’s thread the needle between some tentacles.”

“You’d think the Viscount would’ve mentioned giant sky jellyfish in his tour,” Anakin muttered, and then surged forward.

They’d now closed the distance to the point that the creatures were boats rather than lanterns; Obi-Wan could see their domes gently pulse every few seconds, like sails flapping.  _ Do they float where the wind takes them? Or are they capable of some kind of propulsion?  _ The sight of them was almost disconcertingly peaceful after the journey through the storm system, as though he were dreaming.

“Okay, I think we’ve figured out where the clone is going,” Anakin said from beside him, collapsing the moment. “Look at the center of the bloom. See anything familiar?”

Obi-Wan squinted, doing his best to pierce the darkness, and after a few moments saw an object flickering amidst the jellyfishes’ pulses of light. The silhouette was indeed one he’d seen before—it looked like . . .

“Stratum Apolune?”

“Its much less distinguished twin, more like. No one home anymore.”

“I thought you said there were no power readings.”

“Nothing big enough for our sensors to pick up. Maybe the power keeping it floating is the last life there.”

The sight of the city’s corpse was almost frightening in comparison to the memory of the bright, shining capital they’d so recently left behind—a ghost town in the purest sense of the term. “Do you suppose it was evacuated?” he asked Anakin as another pulse of bioluminescence bathed the spires in gentle color. “Perhaps what we’re in right now is just the eye of that storm system. Whole patches of the moon are consumed by hurricanes, and I don’t imagine those platforms are very easy to move. If the storms get close enough . . .”  _ Everyone just packs up and leaves. _

“We’ll find out when we land, I guess. Speaking of, here we go.”

For the first time since they’d left the landing platform, Anakin eased back on the throttle. They were only a few seconds away from the outer edge of the bloom now, and the tentacles that arced through the air were clustered closely enough that going in full speed would guarantee a collision. Up close, Obi-Wan could see that they were not as wispy as their grace would lead one to believe from afar—they were as big around as the racing ship was, their glow bright enough to turn the cockpit neon shades of blue and green. “Easy, fellas,” Anakin said just before they intersected paths, “just gonna slip right by you here . . .”

The Force shouted a warning—Obi-Wan immediately threw up a lesser version of the shield he’d cast against the lightning bolt a few minutes earlier, and not a moment too soon. A whipcrack of electricity shot through the ship, which bucked and almost slammed headlong into a floating sac of gel. Anakin wrested the ship back under control, decelerating as hard as he could without breaking anyone’s neck. “What the hell? I didn’t touch them!”

A headache was beginning to pulse behind Obi-Wan’s eyes—the effort of countering the blast added to the labor that had been getting them through the storm was not one he’d made lightly. “The tentacles must be able to give off electrical bursts without physical contact. We drifted close enough, and . . .”

“Whack,” Anakin finished for him. “Hell of a defense mechanism.”

“One that our clone friend seems to know about.”

Cautiously starting up again, Anakin eked the racing ship forward, through the thicket that was the rest of this first jellyfish’s tentacles. “So do you think this means they’ve been here before?”

“They had to launch the fighter from somewhere. And this chase has had too many unlucky coincidences to be accidental. First we go through a storm system that no doubt limits the ability of anyone on Stratum Apolune to detect what’s on the other side. Then we come upon a bloom of flying jellyfish that can shock anything that gets too close. And at the center of those jellyfish is a base perfect for launching a short-range ship. They’ve been here, all right.”

Painstakingly easing the ship under the next layer of jellyfish, wincing as a tentacle drifted within a few meters of them, Anakin said, “We’ve gotta warn the others. Get a message to the  _ Coelacanth _ , get them to come down here—”

“We can’t, Anakin.” A knot in the pit of his stomach, Obi-Wan raised his hand before his apprentice could protest. “Our mission here is on a knife’s edge. We’ve only barely been able to get Dooku to even  _ consider _ membership, and part of his reluctance was due to that damned show we put on with the  _ Coelacanth _ in the first place. If I call Cody in—assuming we can even contact him through this storm—we not only risk getting an entire Star Destroyer trapped in the middle of a hurricane, we risk alienating Dooku for good.”

A relatively empty patch of sky emerged, and Anakin risked accelerating. “Better alienated than  _ dead _ , though, right?”

“This time, of course. But what about the next time the Confederacy tries to get in here, and Serenno has no protection because violating their sovereignty  _ this _ time closed Dooku’s mind to membership forever?”

Gritting his teeth, the bioluminescence outside casting his face a shade of sickly green, Anakin wound his way around a stream of tentacles and swore. “I hate this crap. I  _ hate _ it.”

Cautioning him against acting out of anger would have been hypocritical—Obi-Wan could feel frustration boiling in his own gut. Instead, he simply placed a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Believe me, Anakin, if we had no other choice I would call Cody in. But we only have one confirmed clone, and there can’t be too many more operating on a city with no power. We can handle this ourselves.”

Only one more ring of the bloom lay between them and the city. “He must have powered down his engines,” Anakin said, “the fighter doesn’t show up on the sensors anymore. But based on its last trajectory, I’m pretty sure they landed on this side of the platforms.”

“Going after him on foot, then, I suppose,” said the general, running his hand along the length of his lightsaber hilt. “And no fistfights this time.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to notice,” his apprentice said, a bit of good humor restored as he smirked, “but you’ve got a hell of a shiner developing.”

“That just means they’ll underestimate me. Don’t forget, Anakin, surprise is one of our chief weapons.”

“Funny, I hadn’t heard that bit of the Jedi Code before.”

“If I’d told you everything when you first joined up, I wouldn’t have been able to lord my teachership over you, would I have?”

The banter had probably been too relaxing for its own good; Anakin twitched just a hair too close to the last curtain of tentacles, which released a jolt of electricity that Obi-Wan batted aside. Moments later, though, they were through. Behind them, the jellyfish pulsed on; ahead of them, the skeletal city floated black and sightless.

“Okay, turning on the floodlights,” said Anakin. A second later, an illumination much harsher than that of the jellies’ shot forth from the nose of their ship, painting the side of the platform.

The two Jedi scanned back and forth for several moments, until Anakin barked, “There,” and swiveled the racing ship’s prow. Indeed, several hundred yards to port and a few dozen below them lay a landing platform that was occupied by a dormant vulture fighter.

“Room enough for two, it looks like,” Obi-Wan said. “Shall we?”

“Don’t wanna keep our friend waiting,” replied his apprentice, and angled them for a descent.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: ATMOZOA ELECTRUM** _

The  _ atmozoa electrum,  _ more commonly referred to as “sky nettles,” are a species of airborne cnidarian with a decentralized nervous system, similar to the jellyfish found in the oceans of many garden worlds. These hovering creatures dot the skies of gas giants and worlds with large atmospheres. 

Sky nettles are bioluminescent, their light created by a unique energy conversion process—they “feed” off electrical storms, absorbing the energy of lightning strikes and converting it into light. Some of this energy is also used to keep the creatures aloft—each possesses a biological mechanism similar to a repulsorlift, allowing them to hover indefinitely. Excess energy is discharged through their tentacles—the sky nettle equivalent of an aquatic jellyfish “sting.”

The creatures have been known to form symbiotic relationships with gas giant colony stations—a bloom of sky nettles near a city can act as an organic lightning rod. 

TRAVEL ADVISORY: Though they are not constantly electrified, the tentacles of a sky nettle should be treated no differently than a live high-voltage electrical wire. Do not approach them—electrical discharge can occur from several meters away. 


	33. Battle Cry

Valis’ first, overwhelming instinct was to lunge for the shrieking wreck of human flesh in front of her, to stop it from making that horrible noise, but a quiet voice, somehow audible above the screaming, told her that the true danger lay behind her. Without thinking, she pivoted on her foot and slashed, the blade of her lightsaber whipping from right to left and passing through living tissue with a hiss like charring meat. The dim blue glow of the nutrient tubes and the vivid crimson fan of her blade illuminated her victim as it fell, its left arm and what passed for its left leg severed.

Her master would consider it a momentous occasion—her first kill with a lightsaber—but she had no time to take it in. The same inner voice was already warning her that her right flank was exposed, and with no time to pivot again she simply whipped the saber over and behind her head. A gurgling wail confirmed that she’d indeed struck her target.

Propelling herself backward, she felt her senses catch up with the Force’s instructions—she could see the blur of warped tissue ambling toward her from the left. She brought the saber back around and thrust upward, piercing through the thing’s lower jaw. Even as it fell, she brought the saber back to guard and stared at the creature that still stood in front of her. It hadn’t stopped gibbering.

_ Pack hunting behavior, _ she thought, striding forward.  _ Tried to distract me with the one in front while the others flanked me.  _ As she stepped closer, her remaining enemy backpedaled, raising an arm as if to shield its eyes from the glow of her weapon. The motion was almost too much for it; it hobbled frantically with its overgrown good leg, the other dangling limp and useless beside it.

A better person than herself might have felt pity; all Valis could feel was revulsion. As the creature bared its few remaining teeth in an attempt at a threat display, she flicked the tip of her blade outward, slicing through its forehead. A puppet whose strings had been cut, it collapsed to the ground.

For a few moments, she studied its face with her lightsaber’s glow; then, she turned to view the other corpses she’d made. Doing so was merely a formality; it confirmed what she’d already suspected.

Each of the monsters she’d killed, taking into account the different deformities that had cropped up among them, had the same face.

_ One of two options, then. Either these things were bred on purpose—which makes no sense, they’re in no state to properly serve as slaves—or the facility was trying to make normal humans and something went wrong. _

Which one was true didn’t particularly matter—they were here, and Valis didn’t know how many there were. Most importantly, she was alone.

Part of her considered throwing a desperate shout to Maul through the Force, but she sneered at herself and cast this notion aside. He was too far away, and the leverage he’d have over her if she begged him to come to her rescue would be too great to live with.  _ Besides, the son of a bitch is probably well on his way back to his ship by now. No, you’re getting out of this on your own. _

One thing, she realized, was certain: whatever those things were, they hadn’t come from this room. None of the nutrient tanks were big enough to house a human body.

Across the length of the room, visible only dimly, was a door identical to the one she’d carved through in order to enter this antechamber. From here, the admiral had no way of telling whether it was locked, or whether the things that had attacked her had come through it.  _ Either way, the main lab is probably through there. And that’s where I’ll need to go. _

For at least a minute, she simply stood there, motionless, listening to the gentle hum of her lightsaber. Valis knew her own limitations—she was not a coward, but the thought of taking another step through the row of tanks that lay ahead of her, trying to see through the shadows to what lay beneath them, was almost too much. And yet, if she turned her back, she had a bone-deep feeling that a deformed hand would reach out and clutch at her from behind.

_ Besides, running away means he wins. _

That thought was enough to make her take one step forward.

The sound her boot made as it hit the floor seemed obscenely loud in the otherwise silent antechamber. Swallowing, Valis took another step, then another, and swept her weapon from side to side, watching the patches it illuminated for a sudden rush of movement. None came.

Step. Step. Step continued, until she was a quarter of the way across the chamber. The tanks she passed were full of bits and pieces—limbs in some, organs in others, unidentifiable bits of raw flesh floating in a few. Valis refused to look at the things long enough to see if any twitched like that first arm she’d seen. She also refused to throw even the slightest glance behind her, full of the childish conviction that if she were to look, she would make the monsters real.

The dark side—if that’s what had been guiding her in that first onslaught—whispered no immediate warnings; a fearful nausea lingered, but whether that was the Force or her own anxiety Valis had no way of knowing. She took another step. Still nothing came.

The far door, she was now close enough to see, did not appear to be open. There was no indication, however, of whether it was locked.

A third of the way there now. Step. Step.  _ Just keep going,  _ she thought to herself,  _ you must be nearly halfway— _

Above the hum of her lightsaber, a sudden swelling rumble could be heard. Valis froze in place, feeling the floor beneath her vibrate with the noise—and then the dim glow of the nutrient tanks flickered, sputtering in and out for several moments before coming back online.

The nausea in her stomach surged outward throughout her body, and she knew what was about to happen even before she heard the screech.

Two of them converged on her at once this time, hobbling forward from several feet in front of her—one had a face so covered with cancerous growths that she could barely discern its eyes or nostrils, while the other was  _ almost _ normal save for the pitted hole in the center of its chest. Roaring back a battle cry of her own, Valis launched herself forward, sweeping her lightsaber in an arc that decapitated the first monster and lopped the right arm off the second. With a keening wail, it stumbled closer, raising the other arm and pointing at her with ragged nails. Valis took this arm too, then thrust into the gaping wound in the thing’s sternum.

Another screech sounded, this one from behind her. Dread froze her for just a fraction of a second; then she was pivoting, bringing her blade to bear, until a sudden burning in her right hand instructed her to wait. The screech turned into a hissing gurgle, and as Valis completed her turn she almost cried out in alarm.

A lightsaber blade had pierced its throat, one the same crimson as the admiral’s. It was not, however, attached to her saber’s hilt, but one end of an elongated staff. Even in the half-light, its wielder’s facial tattoos were clearly identifiable.

Maul retracted his blade and let the monstrosity crumple to the ground. Turning to look Valis in the eye, he simply said, “Six. Impressive.”

She felt sick with the adrenaline still pumping through her system, unable to expend itself on a clear target. Keeping her lightsaber held at guard, she stammered, “How did—you’ve been  _ watching _ ?”

“I was ready to step in when you needed help,” he replied, flicking a glance at the corpse that lay at his feet.

Lifting the tip of her blade a degree higher, so that it rested at the Zabrak’s eye level, Valis gripped the hilt with both hands. “If you tell me this whole thing was some kind of test—”

“The facility?” Scornfully, he shook his head. “If you think I’d defy Mekosk simply to put you through a training exercise you’re more paranoid than I thought. Letting you go in alone . . .” With the trace of a grimly satisfied smile, he said, “I wanted to see what you’d do on your own.”

“Well, aren’t you the proud teacher,” she hissed. “I made it here, no thanks to you.”

He simply nodded, as if to acknowledge the accomplishment. “As expected.”

Without her realizing, her blade had drifted closer to Maul’s face—she held it there, no longer in guard position but ready to strike. “You knew from the moment we landed there was nothing here. ‘This road leads nowhere,’ you said.”

“I knew because I let the Force know for me,” he replied, making no motion to step back from the blade that hovered mere inches from his face. “You draw on it only when made to. It clouded your ability to see. There’s no conspiracy, Valis. Only your own weakness.”

_ He could so easily be lying,  _ she thought.  _ What he senses and what he doesn’t sense are closed to me. _

But she didn’t know how many other creatures down here she might need help dealing with. And, she conceded to herself, he wasn’t entirely wrong about her perceptions.

Without a word, she withdrew the saber, lowering it to the ground; the tip hissed as it touched the surface. Nodding, then looking around, Maul said as if nothing had happened, “The equipment looks mostly intact.”

“Well, these things seem too weak to have done much harm to it,” she replied. “Though we don’t know what the main lab looks like.”

Idly flipping his deactivated saberstaff’s hilt from hand to hand, the Zabrak looked toward the door on the far end of the antechamber. “Let’s find out, then. And as you still seem to be better at seeing with your eyes than with the dark side, you go first. I’ll watch the back.”

When they’d reach the halfway point, Valis paused to look around. There was no hint of another presence to her right or left; Maul’s silence from the rear seemed to indicate he felt likewise. The door could be seen clearly now—a long scorch mark ran along one side, as though it had been welded shut.  _ That bodes well. _

As they neared the door, Valis felt her step fall into something sticky, semiliquid. Looking down, she saw that she’d stepped in a trail of jellied fluid—one that led to the last nutrient tank in the left row. It had cracked, and though it still glowed dimly there was nothing floating within. Suppressing a shudder, the admiral asked, “Anything?”

Maul responded with a growl that sounded negative. “Well,” Valis said, “maybe these were the only ones left. They’re in no fit condition to do more than stagger around, I can’t imagine a population would last very long.”

“Long enough for disrepair to advance this far,” her master replied. “Whatever happened here was a while ago.”

“There’s such a thing as boosting morale, Maul, you know that?” Sighing, she lifted her saber and closed the gap between her and the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Plasma hissed through metal with almost no resistance; as the ragged oval she’d carved out of the door started to fall, Valis hastily gripped it with the Force and lowered it to the ground, careful not to make any clanking noises. Whatever lay beyond them was pitch black—the emergency lighting had either failed or never turned itself on in the first place.

Smirking humorlessly, she turned to look at Maul and stepped aside. “As you said, I’m better with my eyes than the Force. If it’s all the same to you?”

Smiling back almost contemptuously, the Zabrak gave his saberstaff’s hilt one final twirl between his fingers and then brushed past her, activating the two blades as soon as he’d passed through the doorway.

Valis waited until the crimson glow had passed several steps ahead of her, then took a deep breath and followed.

 

* * *

 

Even with his alien eyes, more equipped than Valis’ human ones to pierce the dark, Maul was effectively blind down here. The glow of his saber blades illuminated the room a few feet on either side, no more; it could have been the same size as the antechamber or as big as the  _ Charybdis _ , and he’d have had no way of knowing.

Had he only relied on his vision. Fortunately, he didn’t need that to see.

This was without question the main production chamber for the facility. Its sheer scale was proof of that—his perceptions extended through it without touching the walls, and the ceiling vaulted high above his head. As he let his saber drift from side to side, illuminating first his left and then his right, he could see row upon row of nutrient tanks, though all of them seemed to have gone stale; the fluid within had congealed. Of a size fit to replace Kamino? Of course not—the cloners there controlled whole cities. But to augment their work?

Most definitely. Assuming they could get it working again.

He reached out to touch Valis’ mind, rapping at the door of her brain with a mental fist. He felt her startle, but to her credit she quickly shot back to his own mind,  _ What is it? _

_ We shouldn’t talk until we know what else is in here. Where do you think the likeliest way to restore power to this chamber is? _

After a few moments of consideration, she replied,  _ There should be a control room that can trip the emergency power somewhere in here. Clearly it’s not connected to the rest of the grid—the chamber must have its own backup generator that failed to trigger automatically. _

Blind faith in technology once again. Maybe Mekosk wouldn’t be so opposed to their mission as Maul had thought.

Unfortunately, the dark side had its limits. The Zabrak could sense the rough contours of the chamber, but locating a specific control room was beyond his abilities. He was reluctant to admit as much to Valis, but he didn’t need to; before he’d said anything, she told him,  _ We can’t just wander through here blind. We’ve got to make some sort of light. _

_ And how do you propose—ahh. _

_ As I said, grenades could come in handy. _

_ They’ll draw everything in here to us. _

_ You know what, Maul? If I’m going to be eaten alive I’d rather get it the hell over with. _

He bared his teeth in the closest he got to a genuine smile, squeezing his saberstaff’s hilt and angling the blades to guard. “Admiral,” he said aloud, stepping to one side and flicking a glance back at his apprentice.

Her face illuminated by her own saber, Valis reached for the grenade belt she’d wrapped around her waist and pulled an orb from it. Depressed a button, causing a red light to emerge. Then wound up and threw.

Six seconds later, the lab exploded into visibility.

The grenades were incendiary, designed to burn for a long time—the initial flare of blinding light died quickly, but the illumination that remained was equivalent to a large bonfire burning in the middle of the chamber. Maul could see shattered tanks where the explosion had caved in transparisteel, pools of nutrient gel wetting the floor, even the very bottom of the chamber’s ceiling, just barely kissed by the light of the flames.

He could also see body parts scattered everywhere.

Even as Valis threw the next grenade, this one in a longer arc intended to light the next stepping-stone in their path, Maul was moving forward, the aura of living things lapping at his senses. The blast hadn’t killed anything—merely scattered already dead remains—but it had definitely attracted attention, and that attention was headed their way.

There was no need to add weight to his strikes, no chance that they’d be deflected—none of the creatures charging in from the shadows could block a lightsaber, and there were enough of them that the direction Maul struck in was superfluous. He whipped his dual blades in a figure-eight pattern, each one constantly sweeping forward and pulling back to bring its mate around to bear. Mutants emerged just quickly enough for the blades to splash them with scarlet light, and then they were on the ground in pieces, heads or limbs or torsos rolling away from the flesh they’d so recently been joined to.

Valis’ second grenade exploded, and the screeching grew louder.

The Force whispered a warning, and Maul vaulted backward, extending his retreat into a flip—his feet left the ground and passed above his head, so that rather than being bowled over by an attacker from behind he was able to flick one of his blades down and bury it in the thing’s cranium. For good measure, slammed his feet into the creature’s back as he came back down, then whirled around and slashed out in the direction it had come from.

He could feel his student’s remaining three grenades soar above his head in quick succession, landing  _ onetwothree _ in a spread across the width of the chamber, and then she was moving to join the fight, charging in and meeting the monsters’ roars with one of her own.

The fires from all five grenades burned now, turning the mutants from invisible nightmares to silhouettes against flickering yellow heat. Maul sliced through the two nearest him, then extended his hand and  _ pulled _ at a group of three who were trying to turn and run; with a flick of his wrist, he sent them flying into the nearest fire, their shrieks turning from fear to agony as they burst into flames. From behind him, he felt rather than saw Valis thrust out to gut one of the creatures, then duck a swipe of claws and bring her saber upward to amputate them from their owner.

_ We’ve only got so long before the fires burn down,  _ she told him, pausing briefly to skewer another creatures who’d come at her from behind. Maul frowned; he hadn’t realized one had gotten past him.  _ You hold them off, I’ll find the control room. _

Blasting back a wordless affirmation, he inhaled deeply, then unleashed a howling challenge to whatever was left standing.

The sound traveled across the chamber, the Zabrak amplifying it with the dark side til it could be heard above the crackle of the flames.  _ Come to me,  _ it said.  _ I’ll give you the death you’ve desired so long. _

Screech after screech rose to meet it.

 

* * *

 

As Maul’s battle cry echoed through the chamber, Valis sped forward fast as her legs could take her, boots crunching on fallen transparisteel and occasionally squelching as they landed on patches of nutrient gel. The five plumes of flame roiled with heat, plastering her hair to her forehead with sweat; she could feel the metal of her lightsaber’s hilt growing hot and returned it to her belt. The last thing she needed right now was a blistered hand.

A mutant lunged at her from the left; the admiral didn’t even bother to try to engage, merely ducked the attack and kept moving. Maul, she knew, could handle it, and the sooner the lights came back on the sooner she could help him.  _ Come on, where are you? _

Tanks, intact and shattered, were all that she could see—each one paired to a dormant control console, presumably to manipulate the growth of the thing inside. She was past the first two grenades’ impact zones now, and the things stretched on ahead of her for what seemed like miles.  _ If you’re there,  _ she said to the dark side, feeling silly even as she did so,  _ now would be a good time to— _

She hadn’t been conscious of opening herself, but a sudden heat bloomed in the pit of her stomach. It was almost like the nauseous warning she’d felt a few minutes prior, but where that had been a prelude to danger this one felt sharp, savagely joyful.

A string tugged at her, drawing her toward the fire that crackled on the leftmost side of the chamber far ahead.  _ There, _ she thought simply, in a voice that was and wasn’t hers.

Angling toward the fire, Valis felt an inexplicable strength enter her legs—she pelted forward with fresh energy, feet barely touching the ground before they rose again. As another mutant charged her from the right, she raised her hand—it smashed into an invisible barrier before it had closed the distance, then went sailing into the black. Despite herself, she felt a savage mirror of Maul’s wolf grin form on her face. The fear was suddenly gone.

This was  _ fun. _

And then, the heat surging upward from her gut into her chest, she saw that the dark side hadn’t let her down—at the leftmost edge of the chamber, just beyond the plume of incendiary aftermath, was an outcropping.

Her lightsaber leapt to her hand, ready to carve through the door, but there was no need—the way into the room was wide open, a body sprawled across the threshold. Slowing, Valis looked down at the face and saw that it was one of the monsters Maul was currently slaughtering.  _ So  _ that’s _ what happened—the generator didn’t fail to trip, these things got in and shut it off.  _ Stepping over the corpse, she depressed her weapon’s activation switch, bathing the room in crimson light.

The control panel was pitted and cracked, and at points wires emerged from it, split and fraying. Had Valis been searching with her eyes, the light dim and adrenaline pouring through her, she might have taken precious seconds to find what she was looking for.

She didn’t have to.

_ There,  _ hissed the Force, drawing her eyes to a diminutive-looking switch at the upper right of the console. With her free hand, she reached forward and shoved it upward.

With a great flare of energy, all the lights in the facility came on at once.

 

* * *

 

The sudden assault of pure white light sent an agonizing dagger through Maul’s eyes—he staggered, instinctively raising a hand to shield them, and then ducked as the Force warned him of something coming at him from behind. Turning, he whipped his saberstaff into a slash that bisected the creature who’d come at him, then brought it back to guard against the next strike.

None came.

His senses slowly flooding back into his head, Maul blinked hard and looked down at his feet. A wall of corpses several bodies deep lay there, a couple of them still twitching faintly. Swiveling on his heel, he saw that the corpses continued in an uneven path, leading back to where he’d begun several dozen meters away.

“Are you all right?” Valis called, weaving around sputtering, dying incendiary flames as she strode toward him.

Retracting his dual blades, the Zabrak nodded. “And you?”

He didn’t have to ask—he could feel it radiating from her, the battle-joy that came when one gave up everything and let the dark side use them as a conduit.

All it had taken was the right motivation. Maul knew from past experience how much throwing someone into a death trap could force them to depend on something greater than themselves.

Her face flushed, sweat dripping, Valis exhaled sharply. “They’re all gone?”

“So it would seem.”

Nodding, she simply stood there for a few moments, swaying, the adrenaline draining from her body. “The first thing we’ll need to do,” she said, “is have Taun We make an analysis of whatever these things were. And then incinerate them.”

“I suggest we keep one,” Maul told her. “You need some sort of trophy, after all.”

Puzzled, she blinked. “Some sort of—”

“Your first kills with a lightsaber. They weren’t Jedi, but it’s something worth noting.”

He could feel her confusion at this sudden appearance of benevolence. Out loud, she scoffed. “You may enjoy displaying severed body parts on a wall, Maul, but I can’t say I share that enjoyment.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, repressing an amused smirk at what he felt underneath her exterior. “We’ll need to practice once we’re done here. Your form is sloppy, you expended too much energy.”

To his own surprise, she didn’t snap back at him. Instead, she simply smiled. “You know what might have helped me save my energy?”

Without warning, there was a sudden stench of ozone and a crackling  _ hum _ of plasma. Maul whipped his saber up to guard and activated its upper blade just in time to block the lateral slash of Valis’ blade.

The two of them stood there, amber irises staring into brown, their faces cast scarlet by their blades. Then, Valis pushed herself back, retracted her blade, and returned the hilt to her belt.

“Keeping our damn escort alive.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed back in the direction of the control room.

Maul let his blade burn on, watching her as she walked back the way she’d come. In his heart, he felt something very much like joy.


	34. Blown Cover

“Identify yourselves.”

The towering, skeletal droid stalking down the central walkway of the vault became bathed in red light each time it passed in front of a laser gate. It gave the robot the appearance of some sort of demon—seven feet tall, bony arms and legs, a head that was just not-human enough to be unsettling . . . Padmé felt herself shiver.

She shot a sideways glance at Mace Windu, hoping to the gods he wasn’t about to do something stupid—though her Jedi accomplice had a hand hovering over his belt, he had not yet grabbed his lightsaber. “Take it easy,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, at the same time raising her hands in the air. “I’ve got my ID card in my pocket,” she said aloud, projecting her voice toward the approaching droid. “I’m going to reach for—”

A digitized battle cry interrupted her. The sharp yell distorted as a red-eyed Liz bolted past her, her mechanical limbs carrying her in a sprint far faster than any human could manage. “Get the stuff!” Liz shrieked. “I’ll hold him off!” 

“Oh gods  _ dammit _ ,” Padmé hissed, wincing at the impact of metal on metal—Liz had taken a dive at the approaching security droid’s legs, tackling the larger robot and sending it slamming to the floor. 

Glancing sideways, she noticed Mace had turned to face the laser gate once again—he was evidently satisfied with the diversion Liz was providing. “Well,” he muttered, craning his neck back to look at the shimmering curtain of photons. “A distraction is a distraction. Better find a way through these.” He paused for a moment, reaching up to stroke his chin. “You might want to take a step back.” 

She raised an eyebrow, but did as instructed—seconds later, a shower of sparks sputtered out from the laser gate and onto the floor in front of her. The crimson curtain flickered out of existence, opening the way into the vault aisle before them. Padmé glanced at Windu, then back at the space where the laser gate once was. Curls of smoke rose from clusters of electronic equipment set into the end of the aisle—the Jedi had evidently done something to the curtain’s emitters. 

“Shatterpoint?” she said aloud, half muttering to herself and half asking Windu. The latter grumbled an affirmative. “Nice,” Padmé continued. “Now to find a row of shelves we actually need to”—a nearby  _ bang _ of metal colliding with the floor sounded—“get at.”

“On it,” Mace said, spinning on a heel and strolling away from Padmé. She mirrored his motion, turning back to face the droid-on-droid brawl happening in the distance. 

Liz was not handling the fight as well as her owner had hoped she would. Her opponent had at least a foot and a half on her, and the security droid was using his height to his advantage. Liz made a flurry of futile punches that didn’t even manage to reach the other droid’s head; he responded by sweeping a lengthy arm across her torso. The impact  _ clanged  _ throughout the vault, and Liz stumbled sideways from the force of it.

She took the fall rather poorly, tumbling along the floor in an unrefined somersault before skidding to a stop. As she rose to her feet, a strange object appeared in Liz’s hand—Padmé could just make out the outline of a dagger-sized vibroblade. 

“She’s a combat droid, then?” came Windu’s voice from behind her. Padmé jumped slightly, startled at the Jedi’s presence—he’d evidently not gone far, instead stopping as she had to watch the fight play out.

“Kind of,” was the reply Padmé managed, the words drawn out with uncertainty. “She’s got combat droid parts  _ somewhere  _ in there.” 

“And a vibroblade.”

“Yeah, well, I have no idea how she got that.” 

The mystery weapon sliced through the air with a  _ zing _ —on Liz’s second slash,  it crackled to life with an electrified energy. The security droid leapt back slightly in response, its mechanical irises widening in apparent fear. 

“You know,” Mace began, glancing sideways at Padmé, “back on Nar Shaddaa they always cautioned us against pulling knives on people.”

“Why’s that?” Padmé asked, not bothering to look back at the Jedi. She was too transfixed on Liz’s repeated attempts—or rather, failures—to land a strike with the electrified vibroblade. 

“If you don’t know how to use it, you’re just giving your opponent the upper hand.” 

As if on cue, the security droid brought both of its hands together in a swift motion, smacking the back of Liz’s armed hand with one and the inside of her wrist with another. This sent the vibroblade skittering across the floor—the security droid took a dive after it, planting a kick squarely in Liz’s torso as he moved toward the weapon.

He never arrived. The momentum of the droid’s dive seemed to change suddenly, as an invisible hand sent it flying backwards—toward one of the vault’s shimmering laser gates.  As the droid impacted the wall of light, a sound quite unlike any Padmé had ever heard filled the vault—it was at once the sound of tearing metal and a crackling campfire, with a sizzle of cooking oil thrown in for good measure. Through the red barrier curtain, she could just make out the droid’s skeletal limbs melting into a puddle on the vault floor. 

Glancing to one side, she caught Mace lowering his hands. The Jedi had apparently seen fit to intervene, a fact Liz was not taking kindly to. The droid stomped over toward the pair of humans, eyes burning red. 

“What the hell, Windu?” she snapped, waving the crackling vibroblade in the air. “I had him!”

“I doubt that,” the Jedi replied flatly, crossing his arms. 

“Besides,” Liz continued, eyes fading blue, “he might have been useful.”

This elicited a scoff from Mace. “For what?”

“Unlocking the door,” Padmé interrupted, raising a pointed finger toward the vault’s entrance. “That blast door he dropped,” she said, trailing off for a moment before continuing. “I don’t think we can open that.” 

Wordlessly, the trio moved toward the entry to examine the blast door. A plain slate of metal, it had come down over both the vault’s entry door and its activation controls. There was, as Padmé feared, no visible mechanism to raise it. 

“So we’re locked in,” Liz grumbled, raising her head to glare at Mace. “Nice going, idiot.” 

“Hey,” Padmé scolded. “It’s not the end of the world. There’s probably another way out.” 

“If there is,” Mace began, “we’ll have to call Antilles. Tell him to move the boat.” 

Padmé shook her head, turning on a heel to walk further into the vault. “Not yet. We’re not going anywhere until we find the stuff we’re after, no reason to call him now.” As she strolled along the central walkway, her eyes darted from one datascreen to another, scanning for the section of the vault they needed to access. “Besides, so what if the front door’s locked?” She paused, spinning around to face Mace and Liz. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna bother us down here.”

 

* * *

 

Layered sounds of multilingual conversations, stringed instruments, and the clinking of silverware against plates filled the banquet hall. Bail raised a glass to his mouth, throwing back another sip of Palpatine’s wine—the fact that the wine was not nearly as good as advertised brought the senator an immense amount of satisfaction.

He poked the tines of his fork through a slice of a vegetable he didn’t recognize—something local, he was all but certain—though he never had a chance to lift the fork from the plate. Without warning, an unexpected presence arrived at the table, sitting down across from him. A robed man, flanked on either side by a crimson-clad guard.

The Chancellor himself. 

“Senator Organa,” Palpatine said, clasping his hands together and nodding slightly. “My apologies. I suppose my presence here makes yours somewhat redundant. Perhaps you could have gone home on this Senate recess after all.” 

“It’s quite alright, sir,” Bail replied through slightly gritted teeth. “Theed is beautiful this time of year, my trip has been quite enjoyable.” 

“As has the drink, I hope.” At this, Palpatine gestured to the half-full wine glass in front of Bail. The senator glanced down at the glass, then back at Palpatine, toying with whether or not to tell the man what he really thought.  _ Cheap wine in a fancy bottle  _ is what he wanted to say. Instead, he went with something less direct. 

“It’s . . . nice.”

Bail fought back a smile as Palpatine’s eyes narrowed. The man seemed to stew on his colleague’s words for a moment before taking a deep breath and changing the subject. “Your usual entourage has changed a bit, Senator. Would you introduce me to the new staff member?” 

Glancing over at Tyyria, the Twi’lek seated next to him, Bail couldn’t help but notice a flash of panic in her eyes. He returned his gaze to Palpatine and replied evenly, “Miss Nox isn’t on my staff. She just got seated with us.” 

“I see. So Miss Amidala is gone for the evening? You attend these events with only one security guard?” 

A waiter arriving behind Bail with refreshed glasses of water offered a prime opportunity for him to pause and carefully consider his next words. As the banquet staffer passed the glasses around the table, stopping briefly to bow before the Chancellor, Bail cleared his throat—though he waited until the young man was gone before he continued speaking.

“Padmé was here earlier,” he began. “She had to step out. A call from the Queen, actually. But yes, I’m perfectly comfortable with just one security guard.” For good measure, Bail shot less than subtle glances at each of Palpatine’s robed security escorts. 

“As you should be. The peacekeeping corps has done a marvelous job keeping Naboo safe and secure.” Bail thought back to the troopers in white flanking the door of the Grand Hall, to the scout walkers patrolling the streets of Theed, and shuddered. 

“This test program has been a great success,” Palpatine continued, his face once again  self-satisfied. “Disarming one world to strengthen the entire Defense Force was quite effective. I’m honored that my homeworld so willingly offered themselves as a test candidate.” 

“Yes, well . . .” Bail began, his words catching in a dry throat.

“Perhaps,” Palpatine interrupted, “your own planet could be next to contribute to the peacekeeping corps? There is a coalition on Alderaan calling for disarmament, is there not? It could bode well for your reelection chances.” 

Bail opened his mouth to retaliate, then stopped when he realized he had nothing to say. Further contributing to his silence was the arrival of a new presence at the table—a woman, dressed in regal wear typical of a native Naboo citizen. 

“Excuse me, Chancellor?” she began, lifting a hand up to sweep her hair behind her ear. The woman was hunched over slightly, her arms held in close to her sides. “I’m so sorry to bother you, sir.” 

Palpatine turned to face her—the ice that had hardened his eyes while he spoke with Bail melted instantly, a warm smile grew on his face. “It’s no bother. Mirabelle, isn’t it?”

The woman nodded enthusiastically, clearly pleased that the Chancellor knew her name. “Yes, sir. I manage the secure vault downstairs. We . . . well, we’re currently storing some art pieces in preparation for an exhibit here at the university next month. I’m told you won’t be able to make it back for the gallery opening.”

“I’m afraid not,” Palpatine said with a somber nod. “My work keeps me away from home more than I’d like.” 

“I thought you might like to see the collection now,” Mirabelle said, clasping her hands together in apparent anticipation. “I could take you down to the vault, you could view some of the pieces. Only if you want to, of course.”

_ SHIT. _

Palpatine nodded, a smile growing on his face once again. “That sounds lovely.” Then, turning back to face Bail: “If you’ll excuse me, Senator.” He rose from the table, flanked by his crimson guard.

The moment Palpatine was out of earshot, a harsh whisper sounded from Bail’s left side. “You have to do something.”

He tore his stare away from the departing Chancellor and turned to face the source of the voice; it was Tyyria Nox, leaning in toward him with a near-frantic look in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, confusion evident in his voice and on his face—paying attention to his new friend wasn’t exactly his highest priority right now, not with Palpatine headed to the one place he absolutely couldn’t be tonight. “What?”

“They’re still down there, aren’t they?” Tyyria asked, motioning her head to indicate somewhere beneath her—her lekku swayed with the motion, moving slightly even as she became still. She lowered her voice even further. “Your team in the vault.” 

Bail felt his heart rate spike; his breath caught in his throat. As sweat began to form on his brow, the senator forced himself to inhale slowly. He wanted to will himself to play it cool, but that was more than difficult in the face of this.

If this Twi’lek was undercover law enforcement come to confront him—or worse, one of Palpatine’s people—that was it. They were done for.

Afraid to let the silence grow for too much longer, he took another deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” 

Inside, he cursed himself. He knew his voice had sounded shaky, unsure—and he’d likely failed to sell the illusion of an innocent man. If only there were a way to warn Padmé and the others so they had time to get out. His mind started to race, chasing threads of speculation about who among his crew had spilled the beans. It was pointless to consider, he knew deep down. Figuring that out now would solve nothing.

A strange sensation pulled Bail back to reality—he felt something brush his knee. The Twi’lek’s lavender hand, lengthy nails adorned with paint, was placed squarely on the senator’s leg now. 

“You don’t have to pretend, Senator. I’m here to help you. Your guard, Padmé, is down there right now, isn’t she? And if you don’t do something, she’ll get caught.” 

“Get your damn hand off him,” Kazan hissed from beside Bail—the grizzled guard was now leaning in from Bail’s right side, one hand planted on the grip of his holstered blaster. 

“It’s fine, Kazan,” Bail whispered, waving a hand and motioning for the man to back off. He turned back to look at the Twi’lek, but said nothing. After a few seconds of silence, she continued. 

“You have to get up there on the podium. Make a speech. Toast Palpatine. He won’t leave the room in the middle of something like that.”

Bail raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t the worst idea. But diving in and going for it would mean tipping his hand to this Twi’lek—fully admitting he was up to something. 

“You say you’re here to help me,” he whispered. “Why?”

She let out a deep sigh, then made hasty glances to her left and right before leaning in even closer to Bail. “I may have . . . omitted some information about my line of work earlier. Yes, I am a librarian here in Theed. But that’s not  _ all  _ I am.” 

His eyes widening, Bail nodded, urging her to keep talking. 

“I should reintroduce myself. Tyyria Nox, Jedi scholar.” 

The senator leaned back, furrowing his brow in confusion. “You study the Jedi?” 

The Twi’lek sighed deeply, glancing down into her lap for a moment before raising her eyes to meet Bail’s gaze. “No, Senator. I am one.”

 

* * *

 

The sterile walls of the Subterranean Long-term Storage vault, buried as they were beneath layers of dirt and stone, returned very little in the way of useful information as Mace Windu extended his perceptions through the Force. He had hoped for some guiding sense to point him in the right direction, steering him toward the row of storage shelving that contained what they were after.  

All he could feel was cold emptiness, and the glowing lines of weakness spread out across every laser gate emitter—waiting to be tapped in the right place, shattered from within so the walls of harsh red light they gave off disappeared. 

Nonchalantly, he reached out with a hand and squeezed the air; the laser gate to his right exploded into nothingness as he applied an invisible pressure to the electronics keeping it alive. 

“Hey!” Amidala scolded—the woman was several steps ahead of Mace, and spun around to face him as she spoke. “We should only break the one we need to get through.” 

“We do that, they might know what we stole,” he replied. “If I do this to a handful of them”—he reached out, squeezing his fist again; another laser gate dissolved into a cascade of sparks—”it’ll look more like random equipment failure.” 

This seemed to satisfy Amidala; she shrugged, nodded her head slightly, then turned to continue walking through the vault. 

With the only general directory of the vault’s contents sealed off to them, locked in a computer terminal behind the vault’s reception desk, the group had been forced to scour the room manually. They paced through the vault, past row upon row of shelving, scanning the holographic displays on each end cap for any indication of what they were after. 

Liz had taken point, citing her ability to both move and process information faster than a human. Amidala and Mace had lagged behind slightly, as each display required them to stop and actually read it for a brief moment before moving on. 

Amidala’s current stop seemed to be a bit more involved, Mace noticed. The woman was standing still in front of a holographic display, paging through it with a swipe of her hand as the underlit floor of the vault cast an eerie shadow on her face. 

“Find anything?” he asked. 

“Nothing relevant,” she replied. “Interesting, though. Bunch of scientific reports are stored back here.” 

Mace raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to one side. “That’s interesting to you?” 

“When the report is titled ‘Destructive Applications of Terraforming Technology,’ you have my attention.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“Some crazy stuff here, Windu,” she mumbled, continuing to swipe through the holographic display. “‘Organic Interstellar Transport Mechanisms.’ ‘On the Pitfalls of Solar Disruption Weapons.’ ‘Research Into Colonization Beyond Unknown Regions.’” She paused, and silence filled the air for a moment before it was cut with a sharp laugh. “Ha. ‘Kyber Crystal Focusing Lenses.’” Glancing over her shoulder, she raised an eyebrow at the Jedi. “Think they’re trying to build a lightsaber?” 

“If they are,” he replied, “there’s a bit more to it than that. I bet it blows up in their faces.” 

“Oh, come on. It’s not like the Jedi Order would lash out at someone for trying to build a bootleg lightsaber.”

Mace shook his head. “No, I mean it might literally blow up in their faces. Lightsabers are known to do that if you put them together wrong.”  

Her eyes widening, Amidala took a cautious step back from the row of shelving. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Liz’s mechanized voice echoed through the vault’s open space.

“I think I found it!” 

The human duo turned and bolted toward the droid, their feet clanging against the polished metal floor. Mace came skidding to a stop beside Amidala and Liz, the latter of whom was poking at another holographic inventory display. 

“‘Records—Governor’s Office,’” the droid read aloud. “‘Administrative. Legislative. Travel Logs,’” she droned, echoing the words flashing on the display. After a few more swipes, she came to a stop on a pair of blinking words:  **Financial Records.**

“That’s what we’re after, right?” Amidala asked. “Follow the money?”

Mace said nothing, instead stretching out his hand to shatter the laser gate emitter. The shimmer of light fell like a torn curtain, dissolving into embers that winked out of existence as they hit the floor. 

The aisle beyond the laser gate was not quite what he had expected. The shelves were packed not with boxes or books one might find in a library. Rather, each shelf housed a glowing data storage bank, complete with blinking lights and wires connecting every unit to its neighbor. 

“Oh, sure,” Amidala grumbled upon seeing the data banks. “ _ Now  _ they digitize their records.” She moved her head up and down, then from side to side, appearing to size up the space as she stepped into the aisle—she immediately became bathed in blue light as she did so. 

“See a place you can plug in, Liz?” Amidala asked, continuing to scan the space around her. In response, the droid wordlessly shoved past her owner further into the aisle, holding one arm aloft as she moved. Mace watched as a standard data jack emerged from the droid’s arm—with a flourish, Liz jammed the data jack into an open port on one of the storage banks. 

“What am I looking for?” she asked, a tone of annoyance present in her voice as her eyes blinked red. 

“Just copy the entire archive if you’ve got the space for it,” Amidala said. “We can go through it later.”

Mace cleared his throat and stepped forward, moving into the aisle alongside the other two. “That’ll take time.”

“He’s right,” the droid said. “It’ll go faster if I shut down during the process and leave only the essential programs running. I’ll be sort of . . . stuck.” 

“I can live with that,” Amidala chuckled, shooting a grin at the droid. “While you’re working, Windu and I can look for our way out of here.”

“Since he locked us in, you mean,” the red-eyed droid snapped. Then, her irises fading blue: “Very well, Miss Padmé. I’ll begin the data copying operation.” Her began flashing rapidly as the jack attached to her arm spun up—after a few seconds passed, the lights behind her eyes faded to blackness. 

“She’ll be fine,” Amidala said—rather loudly, Mace thought, as if she were trying to assure herself more than anything. She turned to face him. “Well, no sense just standing around. Shall we?” 

He gestured back to the aisle’s exit. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Drink in hand, Bail Organa stumbled through the crowded banquet hall toward the podium at the front of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out Chancellor Palpatine, who was elegantly gliding toward one of the banquet hall’s double door exits flanked by his elite guard. 

Sliding past another packed table, Bail silently cursed himself for downing Kazan’s entire glass of wine—he’d done it in a futile attempt to boost his confidence, though he feared it had only served to make him slightly drunk.  _ Then again, that might help sell what I’m about to do,  _ he thought. 

The banquet hall’s podium, microphone array jutting out the top, seemed rather ominous as Bail approached it. He’d always feared getting in front of a microphone unprepared. It was, in his experience, a great way to sink one’s career.  _ Not that this career can sink any lower.  _

Throwing himself against the podium with an extra flair of feigned inebriation, Bail cleared his throat directly into the microphone. The amplified grunt got the room’s attention—most of those dining at the various tables snapped their gazes forward, and the string quartet lowered their playing to a near silence. Much to Bail’s satisfaction, he’d also captured the attention of the chancellor—Palpatine, who was nearly at the room’s exit, had come to a stop and motioned for his guards to do the same. 

Bail raised his glass into the air. “Tonight, we are in the presence of a very special man.” Sweeping his gaze across the room, he settled his eyes on Palpatine. “I’d like to say a few words about that man. Chancellor Palpatine . . . “

He lingered on the head of state’s name just long enough to gauge Palpatine’s reaction. The corners of the chancellor’s mouth curled upward slightly in the barest hint of a smile, and he began to move away from the door and toward a nearby empty chair. 

_ Gotcha, you son of a bitch. _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: VIBROBLADE MODIFICATION** _

The basic vibroblade serves as a common personal defense weapon for much of the galaxy. A pulse motor embedded in the handle of this knife-style weapon allows the already-sharp blade to vibrate at an extremely high frequency, increasing its cutting efficiency. Vibroblades are cheap, effective, and readily available. 

It is this low cost and high availability that has prompted the rise of a vibroblade “modding” scene. Modification enthusiasts will purchase vibroblades in mass quantities to “tweak” them, selling their “tweaked blades” in back alleys and on dark holonet sites. 

By utilizing empty space in the vibroblade handle, modders can outfit the weapons with extra capabilities. Common modifications include electrostatic generators, poison delivery mechanisms, and heater coils. Though modified vibroblades are outlawed on many worlds, they are visually indistinguishable from a stock vibroblade until activated. This has made policing the vibroblade modding community all but impossible. 


	35. Data Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> As our recent hiatus might have indicated to you, we’ve been struggling to put out twice-weekly updates to this story without scrambling to get writing done shortly before a chapter is due. Besides that, we’ve run into another issue, one that’s been snowballing since we started writing this installment of our alternate prequels—we’ve been making far too much up as we go along. Where _The Looming Force_ was pretty meticulously outlined prior to writing, with _The Shadow Within_ we got cocky and decided we could go in with a broad idea of where we wanted to go but some specifics left up in the air. That was a bad idea—it’s resulted in pacing issues and last-minute contrivances/fixes, and left us unhappy with where the story has gone so far compared to _The Looming Force_.
> 
> This weekend, we sat down for four hours and outlined in detail exactly where we want the remainder of this episode to go, so we’ll no longer be flying blind in regards to various aspects of the story. We also made the decision that from here on out, updates will be arriving weekly on Mondays rather than twice weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. We hope you understand—we want to give you the best work possible, and to do that we’d like to be able to have plenty of time to write rather than rushing to meet a deadline.
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for you continued readership and support. May the Force be with you—we look forward to taking you through the rest of the trilogy.

The dim glow of the jellyfish floating outside was just bright enough that Obi-Wan and his apprentice had not been forced to use their lightsabers for illumination. It was still too dark to see anything clearly, but the Force described the contours of the platform around them, preventing any spills into the great abyss below.

“I miss the old days,” Anakin whispered as they ducked into the abandoned building at the end of the landing pad—the door remained open, presumably from the clone’s flight through it only a few minutes ago. “When this guy would realize he’s outnumbered and throw himself off a platform instead of risking us capturing him.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s outnumbered,” replied the general. “There has to be more than one of them here.”

“Well, do you sense anything?”

He had in fact been trying to get a read on how many possible targets they could be going after, but the massive swarm of life outside was clouding his perceptions. The network of jellyfish pulsed constantly with shared information and sensation, a swarm of smaller impulses making up what felt like a single, diluted organism unless Obi-Wan delved far down into it. “Too much interference from outside. You?”

Shaking his head, his apprentice replied, “Those things give me the creeps. Sooner we get out of here the better.”

As they strode further into the building, the shadows grew deeper and denser, but Obi-Wan could still “see” with the aid of the Force. The jellyfish outside weren’t the only parasites, it seemed—holes had been torn into the walls and ceiling, wiring and insulation pouring out of them. Some sort of liquid dripped onto the floor a few feet to the Jedi’s left, feeding a puddle that must have been steadily growing ever since the city was abandoned. The floors, originally the same gleaming white as those of Stratum Apolune, were coated in dark patches; Obi-Wan couldn’t see the color, but he knew that, were a bright light to be shone against the tile at his feet, it would be streaked with blacks and browns.

“What a waste,” Anakin muttered beside him. “Why didn’t they just engineer these things to be able to fly away from storms, instead of abandoning them?”

“I imagine the power output would be staggering,” Obi-Wan whispered back. “This city is smaller than the capital, and it still must be the size of half a dozen  _ Coelacanth _ s.”

“Lotta ground to cover to find a few clones we can’t sense.” After a few seconds of silence, Anakin said, “Screw it, let’s make them come to us, then.”

The idea didn’t exactly appeal to Obi-Wan, but he had to admit they weren’t blessed with options. It was too dark to look for physical traces of their quarry, and searching through the web of jellyfish for a scrap of clone presence was going to take too long. If  the clones had another ship stashed somewhere, they would have ample time to get away. Withdrawing his perceptions after one last push through the net of hivemind activity, Obi-Wan reached down to his belt and pulled away his lightsaber. “I assume this is what you had in mind?”

He could feel the smirk twitching on his apprentice’s face. “For a start.”

 

* * *

 

Gripping the hilt of his ignited lightsaber in his flesh hand, Anakin dragged his mechanical limb along the wall hard enough to draw sparks, the noise of grinding metal making him wince.  _ Okay, that was a bad idea. _ Returning the saber to the mechanical hand, he twirled it through the air as he and Obi-Wan strode forward, the cyan blade illuminating the hall like a particularly deadly torch. “Well,  _ General Kenobi _ ,” he said loudly over his blade’s continued hum, “maybe we should turn around and go back.”

Sweeping his own saber back and forth, Obi-Wan shouted back, “Much as I’d like to return to our vitally important mission, Anakin, we still have our clone friends to deal with.”

“Maybe we should get some backup. After all, there’s only two of—”

“And let them get away? Nonsense. We’ll find them.”  _ All right,  _ Anakin heard the general’s voice tell him through the Force,  _ let’s not lay it on too thick. _

No longer compelled to focus his powers on seeing, the younger Jedi reached out and tried to sense if anything was coming their way. All he could feel, though, was the constant thrum of the hive mind that floated outside, like waves pounding against a beach. Staring into the white heart of his lightsaber, Anakin frowned. _There’s no way they could have gotten to another landing pad already to fire up another escape ship. So where the hell are they?_ _Perhaps,_ his master suggested dourly, _they’re no longer among the living. Hurled themselves off the platform after all._

As if making more noise would ward off the possibility, Anakin flicked his saber at the wall, drawing sparks as it ate into the decaying white. “Man, this place is like Junkfort all over again.”

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. “There weren’t quite so many wiring issues on the space station, I hope.”

Chuckling, Anakin removed his saber from the wall, leaving a livid orange trail where it had melted through. “In the inhabited areas, no. In the older parts? Let’s just say there weren’t a lot of repair droids to keep things in tip-top shape.”

The wreck that had been Junkfort Station, though, hadn’t been nearly as quiet as the derelict platform was. Anakin could remember the feeling of never quite being able to breathe right, all the recycled air being sucked up by other people before it could get to him—far more beings had regularly been crammed into the station’s confines than was legally allowed. He’d fantasized sometimes, as a kid, about snapping his fingers and vanishing everyone else onboard—wandering through the halls by himself, ducking into shops and removing wares without paying, settling into one of the nicer apartments toward the upper levels. The lights had always stayed on in those daydreams, though—not like here.

Even back then, he supposed, he’d been able to sense the life force of all those other people teeming around him, even if he hadn’t recognized it at the time. It had added another layer to the claustrophobia, as though invisible presences were pressing in from all sides. Even though the platform underneath his feet was empty, that part of Junkfort was still here—he could feel the single-yet-diffuse organism that was the jellyfish bloom encircling him, and the more distinct presence of Obi-Wan at his side.

“Well,” he sighed, coming back to the present and lowering his voice, “I don’t think they’re buying it. Or they’re too far away and can’t hear us. Or”—nodding his head in concession—“they’re dead already.”

Nodding grimly himself, Obi-Wan said, “Well, we’re not about to just leave them here. Maybe it’s best if we split up to cover more territo—”

There was a shriek of energy and the smell of ozone, and suddenly his master was on the floor.

Shouting in shock more than anything—it had happened too quickly for fear to set in—Anakin whipped his saber from right to left, deflecting a second blaster bolt into the wall. He brought it back to guard just in time for a full salvo of crimson energy to fly at him—he turned on his heel to dodge most of it, batting the rest of the bolts back where they’d come from.

Behind him, he caught a glimpse of Obi-Wan rising back to his feet—too much adrenaline was coursing through the younger Jedi for him to feel relief. Embers of superheated armor glowed faintly down the corridor ahead of him—he’d successfully killed two clones with their own shots, by the looks of it—but more fire was headed his way.

His master flicked his lightsaber upward just in time to deflect the latest volley. “You okay?” Anakin barked.

“Shot in the shoulder, it’s fine,” Obi-Wan roared back over the whine of his saber. Two more glowing embers lit up ahead of them—the blaster fire abruptly ceased. “That’s four. Quickly.”

Neither Jedi bothered to examine the bodies as they hurried past them—of more immediate interest was the stairway that started downward shortly after the corpses.

The stairs weren’t long, and they led to a doorway—one that currently lay open. Beyond it, rather than more shadows, was the chilly glow of a distinctly artificial light source.

“Wait a moment,” Obi-Wan said, holding up his left hand and then wincing—Anakin felt a sympathetic twinge in his own shoulder. “This could be a trap.”

His legs burning with a desire to just  _ move _ , the younger Jedi shook his head. “I don’t sense anything—”

“And we didn’t sense any of those clones just now when they almost killed us,” his master shot back.

Anakin could feel nothing in the room beyond—no charges rigged to blow or an army of clones lying in wait—but to Obi-Wan’s point, that meant nothing. Blowing out a long exhalation, he forced himself to calm down. “Okay, then, what do we do?”

“One moment.” Exhaling in turn, the general stepped to one side and closed his eyes. “You may want to move.”

Instead of wasting time asking why this was the case, Anakin simply plastered himself against the wall. A second later, an armored body ragdolled its way past him and sailed through the open doorway.

All that sounded from the other side was a meaty  _ thump _ as the corpse drove itself into an obstacle. No shots were fired. No explosives detonated. The light that spilled onto the base of the stairway remained in place.

“Uncivilized,” Obi-Wan conceded, “but I didn’t have any better ideas.”

With a hiss of retreating plasma, he deactivated his lightsaber and returned it to his belt, then lay a hand on his left shoulder. “I’ll have to have someone look at that when we get back, I suppose. Meanwhile, let’s say hello to whatever is still down here.”

Anakin kept his saber at the ready. “Lemme take point, just in case.”

“Your concern is touching,” Obi-Wan grumbled. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and bring up the rear.” Gripping his weapon in both hands, he started for the glow ahead.

 

* * *

 

The crackle of hive mind activity outside was the only thing to cross Obi-Wan’s senses as he followed his apprentice into what lay beyond—not that that meant anything, now that he had confirmation that the jellyfish’s noise blocked out any signal of human presences. Fortunately, a cursory visual scan of the room didn’t reveal any other living things. The corpse Obi-Wan had hurled into the room lay sprawled against a table, unmoving.

A low, constant hum floated in the air—it was so quiet that Obi-Wan might not have heard it under normal circumstances, especially when Anakin’s lightsaber was generating a hum of its own. After the utter silence of the abandoned platform city, though, any noise was distinctive. This one originated from a rectangular block placed at the center of the room, unadorned save for a few green lights that blinked rapidly along its edge. Cables trailed from it to various points around the room, including the floor lamps that were filling the area with sterile, white light.

“Generator,” Anakin said, deactivating his lightsaber and clipping it to his belt. “And besides the lights, it looks like they were powering some computer banks.” Said banks were laid out in a rough circle around the box, half a dozen in total. A monitor sat atop one, on the other side of the room. “Damn, I wish we had someone from the intel team along. We’re not exactly equipped to decrypt enemy data or anything.”

“Well,” replied Obi-Wan, stepping over cables as he crossed the room, “the important thing is that they’re here. The sooner we find out what the Confederacy’s plan for Serenno is, the sooner we can make sure it doesn’t happen. Besides, I have to imagine searching one computer is no different from searching any o—”

He snapped his jaw shut as soon as he rounded the circle of computer banks, catching a glimpse of the monitor.

A livid green meter ran across the screen, and it was slowly running down. The green dash extended maybe three quarters of the way from left to right, and even as the general watched, it was retreating further, streams of Aurebesh characters flashing under it too quickly to be read. “That’s not good.”

Beside him, Anakin swore, then darted for the monitor. “Of  _ course _ they decided to wipe their databanks as soon as they heard us coming.”

“Can you stop it?”

Pantomiming the most frustrated shrug his master had ever seen, the young Jedi started pounding frantically at the keyboard. A few moments later, there was a vicious  _ clang _ as he whacked at a nearby computer bank with his mechanical hand. “It’s not responding, it must be locked to any new input once they start the purge.” Even as he spoke, the line slashed across the screen shrank further—it was down to maybe 60 percent of its original length.

“I have a datapad,” Anakin said, fumbling through his uniform pockets, “but that’s not gonna do any good if we can’t connect it—”

They didn’t have time to workshop a solution, Obi-Wan realized. Their one best shot at figuring out what was going on was slipping away every second. By the time Anakin had one of his genius ideas, it would be gone entirely.

He had no idea what Yoda’s advice would be for this particular situation. But as Anakin frantically looked for his datapad, Obi-Wan remembered a bit of general advice his master had given him a long time ago.  _ If the Force reveals no secrets to you, look down the front of your nose, you should. _

“Sometimes the obvious is the best,” he muttered to himself. Without saying anything to Anakin, he reached out with his mind and  _ twisted. _

All at once, a dozen different cables pulled free from the generator. The white light of the lamps gave way immediately to darkness, and the green slash’s tiny glow vanished from Anakin’s face. The generator’s hum continued, but every other bit of sensory information had been swept away.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan heard from Anakin’s general direction. “I really should’ve thought of that.”

“Don’t say that yet.” Reaching down, he unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and let its sky-blue blade form a torch. “For all we know I just caused permanent damage to the computers.” Crouching low, he grabbed a cable and plugged it back into the generator. “If you’d give me a hand?”

Lamps winked back on one after the other as the two men reinserted cables into generator ports. So too did computer banks, adding their flickering indicator lights to the room’s sterile glow. “Okay,” Anakin said, resuming position in front of the monitor, “there’s . . . a whole lot of other stuff here now.”

None of it looked particularly good; the angry green line had been replaced by red text that scrolled across the screen. “Something something purge interrupted . . . damaged systems, data lost . . . . yeah, yeah, whatever, how do we get into what’s left?” Anakin muttered to himself, punching at the keyboard with his flesh hand. A moment later, a blinking cursor emerged at the top of the screen. “Okay, search function, that’s something.”

Bending down, with a slight hiss as the muscles in his wounded shoulder tensed, Obi-Wan stared at the cursor. “Anything related to Serenno seems like the place to start.”

A few keystrokes later:  _ Database corrupted. Cannot complete search. _

“Would’ve been too easy.” Growling, Anakin typed  _ Stratum Apolune _ .

_ Database corrupted. Cannot complete search. _

_ Dooku. _

_ Database corrupted. Cannot complete search. _

“Well, that’s the obvious down. Any other ideas?”

Squeezing his lightsaber’s hilt hard enough that it made his hand ache, Obi-Wan flitted from thought to thought. “As vain as it might seem,” he said after a few moments, “try my name. I’m the most prominent Republic official on the moon.”

A smirk briefly formed on Anakin’s face. “Whatever you say, General Kenobi, sir.”  _ Kenobi _ went into the search function.

This time, no message of failure popped up immediately afterward. Instead, there was . . . nothing. The cursor continued to blink, the rest of the screen sitting calmly in place.

“Maybe,” said Anakin, “that’s a good sign?”

Even as he spoke, a new window appeared on the monitor.

_ Results. _

Obi-Wan’s eyes flew across the screen, taking in words and phrases as quickly as possible. Some sort of biographical entry, notes on Typhoon Division, a memo on his role in the outbreak of the war on Had Abbadon. “Nothing on Serenno. This last result is just something about the Lancer that we destroyed—”

A spike of alarm drove into the back of his neck. Inside his head, the Force shouted a warning:  _ HERE _

“‘Due to the destruction of the prototype  _ Lancer _ -class precision orbital bombardment station at the hands of General Obi-Wan Kenobi and Typhoon Division, construction of future platforms has accelerated,’” Obi-Wan read aloud, his voice flat. “‘Telos is priority. Proceed with all . . .’ That’s all there is. The rest must have been erased.”

For several moments, the two Jedi sat dumb, the generator’s hum the only sound in the room. Then, Obi-Wan turned to Anakin and said, “Pull up a map of the galaxy on your datapad. Search for Telos.”

As he tapped at the tablet, his jaw set grimly, Anakin hissed, “That was supposed to be the only one. Intel hasn’t found anything about more construction—”

“So our intelligence was bad. We can’t worry about that now. Anakin, map.”

“Yea, yeah, yeah.” Exhaling slowly, his apprentice showed him the datapad. “It’s right here, along this hyperlane . . . wait a second, wait a second.”

He swiped at the screen. The map shifted a few inches to the left.

A blinking dot floated just off the edge of the same hyperlane.  _ Aurora _ , read the line of text above it.

Snapping the pad shut, Anakin shot to his feet. “Okay, let’s get back to the  _ Coelacanth _ as quick as we can, you can tell Cody to get her prepped for jump, then we can contact the Temple and let them know that—”

“We can’t.”

It was almost as if the other Jedi didn’t hear; he brushed past Obi-Wan and started for the door. “Let’s hope that storm has blown out some, we want to make good time—”

“Anakin. We can’t.”

Turning back around, Obi-Wan’s apprentice stared at him, his expression one of mingled shock at the realization he was still processing and disbelief at what his master had just said. “What?”

Knowing what his words would do, the general said them anyway. “Serenno is the key to winning the war. If we can’t rally independent systems to our cause, they’ll fall prey to the clones or just let them through their doors. If we fail to win Dooku, we fail to win the war.”

“Exactly, so let’s go blow up the  _ city-killer _ that’s sitting just down the street.”

“Think what it looks like, Anakin. Think what it looks like for the entire Republic party to pick up and leave in the middle of negotiations. Does that seem like good-faith diplomacy to you?”

Anakin’s jaw clenched, his scar tightening. Obi-Wan could feel the anger starting to burn beneath him. “I am so sick of this political  _ crap— _ ”

“ _ Everything _ is political, Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouted, his own anger rising in him so suddenly that he had no time to quell it. “And like it or not, we have more than one job to do. Besides which, there is already a Confederate force  _ on this moon _ , and we have no time to search the rest of this platform ourselves. If we were to take the  _ Coelacanth _ to deal with this and the Confederacy were to come knocking on Serenno’s door, they’d be defenseless. Just  _ think _ !”

Underneath the tide of his own frustration, he could feel Anakin’s diminish, with hurt flooding in to fill the void. Under other circumstances, Obi-Wan would have closed his eyes, taken a deep breath, and apologized for his lapse in self-control, but they didn’t have time.  _ It’s got his attention, that’s what matters.  _ “Now,” he continued, forcing his voice into a calmer register, “here is what I suggest.

“We took down one Lancer from the bridge, and it was fully staffed. This one is under construction, and from what that computer told us, they only recently accelerated its completion. There will be a skeleton crew, which will make the job easier. If we were to bring the  _ Coelacanth _ in, there would be a protracted battle. Instead, going in on Qui-Gon’s ship will allow for a stealthy approach.”

Pushing his hurt deep below his desire for action, Anakin nodded emphatically. “Okay, great, so the two of us go in on her ship—”

“Not the two of us, Anakin. Me.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Before the other man could say more, Obi-Wan raised his voice, speaking quickly. “We cannot simply leave Qui-Gon here by herself. She’s not in a physical state to go into battle, and if the clones on this moon go after Stratum Apolune, she won’t be able to protect Dooku. We need a combat-ready Jedi here in case that happens.”

“Great, so  _ you _ stay and  _ I’ll _ go.”

“Anakin, you’ve never been on a combat mission alone. You’re my responsibility as a Jedi and as a general, and I’m saying you’re not ready.”

Anakin’s scar tightened again, the rest of his face going red. “What do you mean,  _ not ready _ ? How many times have I saved your life? And I’m a damn sight better pilot of that ship than you—”

“This is not about your abilities. It’s about what I owe you, and it’s about my having to explain to your wife that I’m the one who sent you if you come home in a body bag.” Shaking his head, Obi-Wan said, “I would trust you with my life, Anakin. But I’m in charge here, and I’m saying no.”

In an apparent effort to calm down, his apprentice clenched his mechanical hand until the metal started to audibly creak. Obi-Wan could still feel the anger boiling within him, but when he spoke, his voice was almost steady. “So who’s in command while you’re gone? Cody?”

“No. You.”

 

* * *

 

Despite doing all he could to feel the opposite, Anakin had still wanted to punch Obi-Wan in the face for the last several minutes.  _ I’m not ready—like you weren’t ready to fight the Sith who almost killed you, or fly the  _ Dancer _ off the planet into a space battle, or be a teacher? Don’t you patronize me, _ he’d seethed to himself as Obi-Wan spoke in that forced calm, rational way he always did when he was lecturing. He’d been prepared for a minute-long explanation of why putting Cody in charge would be the best possible plan.

The two words he heard instead did the trick he’d been unable to do himself. They evaporated his fury into utter confusion.

“Wait, what?”

Stepping forward, Obi-Wan reached into his pocket and plucked out a thin metal rod. “This code cylinder bypasses the chain of command if need be. Whoever has it has my express authorization to command Typhoon Division. I’m giving it to you.” He extended the cylinder toward Anakin’s flesh hand.

Rather than taking it, the younger Jedi just blinked. “Woah, hold on. You don’t trust me to go on a solo mission, but you trust me to—”

“Anakin, Cody is not capable of commanding this situation. There are too many variables based on things he doesn’t know, things we can’t tell him. We can’t out Dooku or Qui-Gon to him as Force users. It has to be you making the calls.” And with this, the lecturing tone gave way. Obi-Wan said, in as earnest a voice as Anakin had ever heard him use, “You’re my friend, and my student, and you have the Force to guide you. So I am hereby turning command of Typhoon Division over to you.”

Numbly, Anakin raised his flesh hand. He felt the cylinder drop into it with a cool weight, and clutched it in his fingers. “I—I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” Reaching up and laying a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, the general said softly, “May the Force be with you.”

Chuckling shakily, Anakin managed to ask, “What, no last-minute advice?”

Smiling himself, Obi-Wan replied, “I’m afraid not. Try not to make Cody too angry.”

“That might be harder than blowing up a battle station by yourself.”

“Let us hope it will be.”

 

* * *

 

If you were to have been floating through Serenno’s violet-black night sky, watching a bloom of jellyfish blink softly as they fed, you might, if your eyes were quick enough, have spotted two smaller lights emerging from the sea of blues and greens.

One ducked under the bloom’s tentacles, then pulled itself upright, speeding toward the heart of a bruise across the twilight—headed for another platform city, one that was still full of life.

The other soared over the top of the drifting lanterns and then shot upward, headed for the stars.


	36. Evidence Exchange

Padmé’s footsteps rang throughout the secure vault as she wandered its central corridor, eyeing each aisle of shelving for signs of a potential exit. Several paces behind her, Mace Windu appeared to be doing the same—though his feet fell softer against the underlit metal floor. 

As she reached up and scratched at the red wig atop her head, Padmé noticed the sudden absence of sound behind her—she turned slowly to find Windu standing still, his arms crossed. 

“We’re not gonna find another way out of here,” he grumbled. 

Her eyes widened, and she stood up straighter. “Did the Force show you something?” 

Scoffing at the question, the Jedi shook his head. “The Force didn’t need to show me anything. Just think about it. If there were another way out of here, some secret backdoor exit . . . why didn’t we use it to get in? Crawling through some vent would’ve been a hell of a lot easier than getting past all that front door security.”

“Gods dammit,” Padmé mumbled. “You’re probably right.” Then, turning to fully face Windu: “What do you suggest?” 

“We cut our way out,” he replied flatly, spinning on one heel and marching toward the vault’s main entrance—which was still shielded by a heavy blast door. 

“Wait!” she said, jogging to catch up to the marching Jedi. “They’ll know we were here.”

Windu barked a humorless laugh and spread his arms wide as he continued to walk. “Look around, Amidala. We are well past the point of leaving no evidence.” 

Her eyes darted from one broken laser emitter to another, finally settling on the melted puddle of metal that was once the vault’s security droid. With a shrug, she looked back up at Windu—the Jedi had come to a stop in front of the blast door, and the hilt of his lightsaber sat squarely in his right hand. 

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “Just—”

“Be careful, I know.” A  _ snap-hiss  _ echoed throughout the vault as Windu was bathed in purple light. “I’ll go slow, make small incisions. It’ll look like I used a standard cutting torch.” 

“If you say so.” She watched with trepidation as the Jedi squared his stance, held the saber aloft in a reverse grip, and placed the palm of his left hand squarely against the pommel. The violet blade sizzled and popped as it impacted the durasteel plate of the blast door, sending sparks raining to the floor. 

“This might take a while,” Windu said through clenched teeth, not taking his eyes off his work. “You should go check on your droid.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Chancellor Palpatine . . . “ 

Bail trailed off, and instantly felt the impact of every eye in the room staring at him. He’d been so focused on Palpatine himself, making sure that he hooked the chancellor in and stopped him from exiting the room, that he had hardly given thought to what he was actually going to say.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to reassure himself. _You’ve made up speeches before._ _You can do it again._

“Well, where do you begin with a man like Palpatine?” he continued. An uncomfortable chuckle spread throughout the dining hall; Bail took the opportunity to clear his throat before continuing. 

“I first met Palpatine shortly after you all elected him to the Senate. Each new legislative session, we host a party for the new group of incoming senators. Palpatine was probably the oldest person in the room—much like with his wine, he was content to let his political career age a bit before he took it to the galactic level.” 

This elicited an actual laugh from the crowd, filling Bail with a surge of confidence. If one jab at Palpatine played well with the room, he thought, it couldn’t hurt to give them another. 

“I’ll be honest, when we first spoke at that party, he struck me as a bit of a pretentious prick.” The room’s reaction was more mixed this time—as Bail’s eyes darted from table to table, he saw expressions varying from shocked gasps to disapproving head shakes to stifled chuckling. The worst reaction of all was probably Palpatine’s—though outwardly he appeared unfazed, Bail had spent enough time behind closed doors with the man and had learned to read his eyes. It was clear enough—he was not amused. 

_ Okay, tone it down.  _ “I soon came to realize he was a damn good politician. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Naboo.” To his relief, light applause cascaded from table to table, though he could still see audience members trading nervous glances. “Once Palpatine was signed on to a bill, everyone knew it was sure to pass. Of course, on the other hand, he never was one for writing his own legislation.

“It’s kind of like the war, in a way. Let someone else start it, and then sweep in to actually see it through to the end. Am I right, Chancellor?” 

At once, Bail felt the air leave the room. Horrified expressions sat plastered on most faces—half the room was staring at Bail in disbelief; the other half stared at Palpatine, as if looking for some guidance on how to react. 

“His excellent leadership during this war”—he’d hoped those words would restore the room’s heartbeat, but the atmosphere was still thick with mortification—“is one of the many reasons I’m sure we’re all looking forward to voting for him next year. That’ll really get his career as Chancellor off to a start, since he’s still not done with MY term. You know, as a Chancellor . . . “

Bail trailed off, his eyes wandering back to his own table. Kazan had his head in his hands, and Tyyria Nox was staring at him, eyes wide, shaking her head rapidly and making a  _ cut it out  _ motion across her throat. 

“. . . um, supporter. As a Chancellor supporter, I cannot stress enough how much of a difference Palpatine’s leadership is making in the halls of the Senate building every day.” Bail could feel his speech accelerating, as if he subconsciously wanted to wrap things up as quickly as possible. He awkwardly fumbled for the glass perched atop the podium, raised it halfheartedly into the air, and proclaimed: “To the Chancellor!” 

The echo of his toast rippling across the room, Bail hurriedly backed away from the podium and shuffled toward his seat—out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Palpatine had not drunk to his words. 

As he reached his table and slumped back into his seat between Kazan and Tyyria, Bail was relieved to see that most of the room seemed to be quickly moving on from what had just happened. The quartet in the corner had resumed their playing, and the din of conversation crescendoed to a comfortable level as the banquet guests returned to their food. Bail sighed and glanced over at his security guard. “Was that enough?” 

Kazan shrugged and raised a hand to his ear. “I’ll find out.” Then, lowering his voice to a whisper: “Padmé, you clear?” The man nodded, narrowed his eyes, then glanced back up at the senator. 

“She says they’ve cleared the vault, but things didn’t go quite as planned. I guess they left a bit of a mess down there.” 

Bail felt his stomach churn slightly at the news. “What exactly does that mean?” 

Kazan shrugged. “Hell if I know.” 

Sighing, the senator turned to face the seat at his left, intending to ask his new Jedi companion for guidance. Much to his surprise, Tyyria was nowhere to be found.

 

* * *

 

Raymus Antilles paced nervously back and forth across the deck of the parked getaway boat. After navigating the watercraft through the canals of Theed, he’d moored it near a grate that drained into the city’s sewers and waited for what felt like an eternity. 

Throughout the evening, the occasional patrol speeder had driven along the canal, staffed to the brim with the white-armored troopers of Naboo’s new peacekeeping force. At these times, Raymus had done his best to make himself inconspicuous, leaning casually back in one of the boat’s seats and sipping from a bottled beer. The alcohol had done nothing to calm  his nerves, and he’d eventually had to stop even that effort at mellowing himself out before it impaired his steering abilities.

He was a transport pilot, not a getaway driver—a fact his brain reminded him of with increasing frequency as the night dragged on. There was a point where Padmé’s plan had seemed almost thrilling, he had to admit, but that point had long since passed. The thrill had been replaced by dread in the pit of his stomach as he’d stepped onto the boat—a teasing goodbye from Ellis, who was waiting back in Bail’s landspeeder, had done nothing to help the situation.

It was Raymus’ heightened nerves that nearly sent him tumbling overboard when a metallic  _ clang  _ sounded against the rear of the boat. It took the pilot a moment to realize what had happened—a four-pronged grappling hook had secured itself against the watercraft’s hull. Several seconds later, three figures were clambering over the aft of the vessel. 

As Padmé, Liz, and the Jedi Windu settled in to the rear of the boat, Raymus took his position behind the steering wheel. “Everyone all set?” 

“All set,” Padmé replied, her voice low. “Let’s go, nice and easy.” 

Raymus gripped the keys dangling from the boat’s ignition and gave them a quick turn. 

Nothing. 

He repeated the motion twice more, silently praying that  _ something  _ might happen, any sign of life from the watercraft’s engine. On the last turn of the keys, the boat’s engine seemed to whine in protest as it sputtered briefly; ultimately, though, it fizzled out before it could fire to life. 

“Uh, Padmé. . . the boat’s not starting.” He glanced back at the seats at the rear of the boat—she was rising to her feet, her expression one of little concern. 

“Yeah, it did this when I picked it up from the rental place. It’s a little finicky.” She moved toward Raymus, reaching out a hand as if to say  _ let me try.  _ “If you turn the key halfway and hold it there for a sec—”

After he did so, the engine sprang to life with a great roar, lurching the boat forward and throwing Padmé to the deck. In a panic, Raymus whipped the steering wheel to the left to avoid slamming into the canal wall—though he successfully turned in time, the boat’s motion sent a spray of water out of the canal and onto the stone path beside it. 

Easing back the throttle lever, he brought the boat down to a leisurely cruising speed. He inhaled deeply, then glanced back at his passengers. “Think anyone noticed that?”

Picking herself up off the deck of the boat, Padmé brushed at the knees of her stolen security uniform. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Returning to her seat at the back of the boat, she crossed her legs. “It’s probably fine, just keep it casual and—”

_ “Hey! Watch the reckless driving,”  _ came a distorted voice projected from a loudspeaker. His eyes darting to the boat’s rear view mirror, Raymus gasped at the sight it held—the flashing red and blue lights of a police speeder. 

The landspeeder was hovering along the side of the canal; as it drew closer, Raymus could make out the distinct white armor of the new peacekeeping corps. “Padmé,” he muttered out of one side of his mouth, “what should I do?” 

“Just keep driving,” she whispered. 

_ “Pull over,”  _ the voice from the speeder barked.

“Don’t pull over,” Padmé hissed back. “They’re stuck on land; at the next turn in the canal I want you to take off. Full throttle, you hear me?” 

“You want me to run from the cops?” Raymus asked in disbelief. 

“Just  _ do it, _ ” she hissed—her instructions were slightly drowned out by a police siren’s keening wail. 

As the boat approached a spot in the canal where one waterway intersected another, Raymus slowly turned the boat’s steering wheel. He glanced back at the police landspeeder, eyeing the land around the canals—if he took off to the left, the peacekeeping troops would be cut off, unable to pursue their boat. His eyes met Padmé’s, and she nodded. 

“Punch it.” 

So he did, slamming the boat’s throttle forward and sending a spray of water back at the approaching police speeder. Wind whipped through his hair as the boat rose to its top speed; he felt his heart beat faster as the walls of the canal seemed to close in around him. 

Risking a glance backward, Raymus looked at his three passengers. Though Liz and Windu remained seated forward, Padmé had moved to face backwards. Her knees were planted in the seat, and she leaned toward the rear of the speedboat. 

Raymus followed her line of sight—his jaw dropped open when he realized what she was looking at. The landspeeder they had meant to flee had driven right off the edge of the canal wall and was now hovering atop the water, barreling straight toward their speeding boat. 

“Well,” Raymus shouted over the whipping winds, turning back to face the direction of the boat’s travel, “that’s gonna be a problem.”

 

* * *

 

Tyyria Nox slinked and slithered through the banquet hall crowd, mentally working to mask her presence with the Force.  _ Pay this one no mind,  _ the Twi’lek Jedi tossed a light mental suggestion at a cluster of Quarren onlookers, exhaling in quiet relief as they turned away from her. The gilded dress and headtail jewelry she wore were hardly a subtle outfit; then again, she hadn’t come to tonight’s party expecting any need for subterfuge.  _ Well, any more than usual. _

She was working her way around the outside of the room, moving as fast as her formal garment allowed, with a singular goal in mind: beat Palpatine to the exit door. His transit through the room was hardly a fast one— _ and thank the Force for that,  _ she thought—as banquet guest after banquet guest stopped to shake his hand. 

The Chancellor took it in stride, as any good politician would, smiling and thanking each constituent for their support. And so, when Tyyria Nox ducked around a marble pillar and stepped between Palpatine and the door, she did so with the confidence that her own interaction would be far from out of place. 

“Chancellor Palpatine!” Tyyria exclaimed with a bright smile, extending a lavender hand toward the robed figure—his crimson-clad guards, positioned on either side of him, seemed not to mind the umpteenth interruption. 

“Ah, Miss . . . Nox, yes?” Palpatine said, clasping the Twi’lek’s hand between both of his own and giving it a firm shake. “Though I never did catch your first name.” 

“Tyyria,” she supplied with a nod.

At this, Palpatine’s face lit up. “Well, well. Named after Chancellor Ruusan herself, I assume?” 

“Ryloth would probably still be torn apart by clan warfare if it weren’t for her uniting the Republic the way she did. My parents admired her greatly.”

“Certainly someone worth admiring,” Palpatine replied. “I think every good chancellor strives to be like her in one way or another.” At this, he craned his neck back to glance at the dining room—as best Tyyria could tell, he was glaring at Senator Organa’s table. 

She forced out a chuckle. “That speech certainly was . . . something, wasn’t it?” Palpatine turned back to face her, wordlessly narrowing his eyes. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

At this, the Chancellor raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?” 

“I was at the same table as Senator Organa. If I’d known what he was going to do when he stood up, I’d have stopped him.” 

Palpatine waved a dismissive hand. “You had no way of knowing. I just shudder to think what he might do at the next education fundraiser.”

With inaudible relief— _ No grudge against me for being at the table _ —Tyria nodded, a grin creeping up the corners of her mouth. “Next? You’re more gracious than I am, sir. If I were in your position, there would be a different chair of the Education Committee the day I got back to Coruscant.” 

Palpatine furrowed his brow, pausing as if to consider the idea. “Yes, well . . . if you’ll excuse me, I really should be going. Always a pleasure to speak with my supporters, though. Lovely to meet you, Tyyria.” 

“And you, Chancellor.” 

With that, he was gone, and Tyyria was weaving back through the clusters of tables. As she arrived at the seat next to Senator Organa, the fake smile she’d plastered on for her conversation with Palpatine faded away, replaced by a look of weariness. 

“What was that about?” Organa whispered, leaning in toward the Twi’lek. 

“Delaying the inevitable,” she muttered. Then, raising a hand to gesture toward Bail’s security guard: “You said they left a mess down there. I just wanted to stall him for a bit longer before he saw it . . . and make sure his mind was elsewhere when he got down there.” 

“What did you distract him with?” the senator asked in a hushed tone, reaching for his wine glass as he did so.

“Picking a new education chairperson.” She paused, shooting a sideways glance at Organa. “I may have just gotten you fired from the Education Committee. Sorry.” 

A smile crept up the senator’s face. “Oh, don’t apologize. You did me a favor.”

 

* * *

 

Water sloshed over the side of the speedboat as it banked hard around a corner of Theed’s canal network, sending Padmé nearly tumbling to the deck. Several feet behind them, the pursuing police speeder hovered only inches above the water, spraying a fine mist in its wake as it expertly took the same corner that had nearly toppled the boat. 

“No way we lose them in a straight chase,” Raymus shouted from the driver’s seat. “I don’t like our odds here!” 

“Hey,” Liz piped up, eyes a sharp crimson, “it could always be worse.” 

As if on cue, a lance of red energy shot out from the police speeder, impacting the water just to the right of the boat—a spray of water and steam exploded upward, and Padmé swore as she threw herself to the deck.  _ Peacekeepers my ass. _

Liz had done the same, she noticed as she glanced to her side. Raymus had gone from standing at the boat’s steering wheel to sitting down, ducking his head as far as one reasonably could while still seeing where they were driving. Windu was the sole exception—the Jedi had not dived for cover, and had instead taken a step toward the direction of the gunfire. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Padmé shouted over the wind—as the boat lurched to the left and back again, she found herself rolling into Liz. 

“Fighting back,” Windu replied flatly. He held his right hand out, palm open, and the hilt of his lightsaber jumped off his belt and smacked into his palm. 

“No!” Padmé snapped, jumping off the deck and scrambling for Windu—as she reached the Jedi, she clamped both hands around his wrist. “No lightsabers. Not while they can see us.” 

Windu yanked his wrist free of Padmé’s grip, glaring defiantly at her—but he returned the lightsaber to his belt. “You got a better idea?”

“I’ll handle it,” she spoke through clenched teeth—as another blaster bolt whizzed past the boat and hit the water, she stormed across the cramped boat deck and picked up a long and narrow object off the floor. Gripping it at one end, she pulled, and the sword came free from its sheath. 

“Oh, sure,” the Jedi grumbled, rolling his eyes. “No lightsabers, but a good old-fashioned sword will definitely do the trick—”

Tossing the sheath to the deck, Padmé thrust her weapon into the air. The blade split at the tip, appearing to fold outward—as it did, she yanked it back downward. There was a mechanical  _ snap  _ as components moved into place, and Padmé Amidala was no longer holding a sword. 

Instead, she was brandishing a bow. 

“I fail to see how that’s any better,” Windu shouted.

“I’ll show you!” Padmé shouted back, shoving the Jedi aside as she took her place at the rear of the boat. Drawing the string back, she lined up the pursuing speeder in the weapon’s sights and let it fly. 

A palm-length bolt shot out of the weapon—the  _ zing  _ it made as it moved through the air could be heard even over the cacophony of engine noise and rushing water and whipping wind. It impacted the pursuing speeder with a  _ clink _ . . . and for a moment, nothing happened. Windu took the opportunity to glance sideways at Padmé with a scoff, but she held up a finger. 

“Oh, just wait.” 

In that moment, the bolt exploded. A great gout of fire erupted from the front of the speeder, sending it sailing end over end. White armored troops were thrown free from the vehicle—some landed in the water, while others impacted on the canal’s edge, their armor resounding against the stonework with a  _ crack _ . The speeder slammed onto the water’s surface—the sudden force by which it stopped gave it the appearance of being yanked backward as the speedboat shot away. 

“There,” Padmé said, turning to face Windu and shooting him a cocky grin. “Consider the situation handled.” 

Then, in an instant, they were both thrown to the floor. 

“Sorry!” Raymus shouted as he weaved the boat’s steering wheel back and forth in a panic. “We’ve got more company.” 

Padmé glanced up—indeed they did, though it was not another landspeeder. Alongside the canal, a two-legged recon walker—atop which sat a white-armored peacekeeping trooper—was sprinting to keep up with the boat, occasionally turning to fire a laser blast into the water. 

Another of these laser blasts impacted off the port side of the boat, sending Windu tumbling into Padmé—Liz, who had apparently been anticipating the movement, was securely anchored around one of the boat’s seats. 

As Padmé and Windu smacked into each other and fell to the deck, a  _ clink  _ of metal rang in the air. A thin cylinder, no longer than Padmé’s hand, was rolling across the deck. She reached out and snatched it up, stopping briefly to examine it. Holding the cylinder aloft and gesturing with it, she glanced at Windu. “This yours?” 

Wordlessly he plucked it from her hand, sliding the cylinder into a pocket as the boat was rocked by more blaster fire. 

“Uh, Padmé?” Raymus shouted from the driver’s seat, his voice shaky. “Mind taking care of that thing?” 

She rose to her feet, gripping her bow in one hand as she stared up at the pursuing walker. Drawing the string back, she loosed another bolt—this time, the projectile impacted with a  _ sizzle,  _ and jagged blue tendrils of electricity snaked up one leg of the recon walker. The mechanical beast’s knee seized in place, sending it toppling to the ground—its driver was thrown free, splashing into the canal as the walker crumpled against the stone breakwall. 

“That thing’s got all sorts of tricks, doesn’t it?” Windu muttered, shaking his head—though Padmé was certain she spotted a brief flash of amusement crossing his face. 

“I’m afraid that’s all it’s got,” she replied, lowering the bow to her side. “This is a demo unit from a manufacturer on Alderaan. They included a sort of . . . sampler pack of different bolts. All I’ve got left are regular ones.” 

“Let’s take things easy, then,” Raymus piped up, easing back the boat’s throttle. “Maybe that’ll keep us out of trouble.” The rush of wind died down as the watercraft slowed to a leisurely crawl—a muttered “thank the gods” buzzed out of Liz’s vocabulator as the droid, who had clamped her arms tightly around one of the boat’s passenger chairs, unlocked her iron grip and stood to her feet. 

The brief moment of respite was the first opportunity Padmé had really had to take in the canals of the Royal City at night. They were, she realized, rather beautiful. Streetlamps perched along the breakwalls in even intervals, and pedestrian bridges carved in stone arched over the waterways. Along the water, outdoor cafés adorned in string lighting sat empty—it was, she realized, rather late to be out on the town.  _ Thank the gods for that,  _ she thought; anyone witnessing the carnage they’d just wrought would have only added to the evening’s problems. 

“Oh,  _ crap. _ ”

The words coming from Raymus’ mouth in a hiss snapped Padmé’s attention back to the front of the boat. Before them sat two police speeders, hovering side by side in the canal and bristling with peacekeeping troops—all of whom were brandishing their blaster rifles. 

Before Padmé could say a word, Raymus sprung back into action—he yanked backward on the boat’s throttle, throwing the vessel into reverse. As the speedboat backed away, the white armored troops peppered it with blaster fire, punching several holes in the bow. Cranking the wheel hard to starboard, Raymus spun the boat around and slammed the throttle forward. 

Once again, they were speeding through the canals—and though Padmé felt somewhat at a loss for what to do, Raymus was guiding the boat with a clear sense of purpose. 

“We’re never gonna outrun them,” he shouted, “but I’ve got an idea.” Whipping the boat into another turn, he risked a glance backwards. “How long can you two hold your breath?” 

Padmé’s eyes grew wide. “You are not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Windu interrupted, moving forward to stand alongside Padmé. Then, looking up at the boat’s driver, he gave a confident nod. “Do it, Antilles.” 

A few sharp turns through the canal later, the boat was careening toward the edge—the point where the canal became a waterfall, draining off the plateau which held the Royal City of Theed. And so, with engine roaring, the speedboat sailed off the precipice of the waterfall and into the abyss.

 

* * *

 

Ellis Korven pulled her landspeeder to a stop at the end of the street—it terminated in a sort of cul de sac, one which butted up against the winding waterways of the city. Still adorned in formal evening wear, the Clawdite stepped out of the car; her heeled boots clicked in a most satisfying manner against the cobblestone road. 

Stepping up the curb, she wandered toward the edge of the canal breakwall. This spot was one of many around the city, one where sandstone stairs sloped down toward the water, allowing tourists and residents alike access to their boats. Glancing around her in all directions—the cul de sac, though well lit by the soft amber light of Theed’s streetlamps, was deserted—Ellis descended the stairs toward the water's edge.   
Slinking into the shadows cast by the rising breakwall, Ellis leaned against the damp stone and waited. Her lizard-like eyes, more suited than a human’s to see in darkness, darted back and forth across the water’s surface looking for any sign of movement. 

_ There _ . A cluster of rising bubbles, and movement in ripples underneath the surface, was all Ellis needed to see. Crouching down on one knee, she dipped a hand into the water and waved it around. 

Moments later, four heads broke the water’s surface—three human, and one droid. The human in the matted red wig plucked a small electronic object from her mouth, extending a hand back toward the one with the glistening bald head. 

A toothy grin flashed across Ellis’ face. “Evenin’, folks.” She poked a clawed thumb up the stairs, in the direction of the landspeeder. “Need a ride?”

 

* * *

 

As the landspeeder gilded to a halt in the university parking lot, Padmé ran one hand over her dress to smooth it, at the same time running the fingers of her other hand through her hair. She didn’t look half bad, she thought.  _ Especially considering I just jumped in a river.  _

The landspeeder’s doors popped open, and the crew poured out of the vehicle—all save Liz, who was hidden in the speeder’s trunk in a near catatonic state. The droid was using all essential processes to run a report on the data they’d just stolen—Padmé hoped that by the time they were done at the banquet, she’d have found something usable. 

As Ellis and Raymus walked side by side toward the Grand Hall’s entrance, Padmé exhaled long and low. Falling back a few paces, she reached out to grab Mace Windu by the shoulder. “Hold up for a second,” she said, her voice muted. 

The Jedi froze, turning slowly to face Padme—the parking lot light above them cast eerie shadows across his hardened expression. “What’s up?” 

She waited for a moment before answering; she wanted to be sure everyone was out of earshot. The moment it seemed like they were alone, she leaned in close to his face and hissed, “You selling that hex, or using it yourself?” 

The Jedi leaned back slightly and raised an eyebrow, but did not speak. When the silence had gone on long enough, it was Padmé who spoke again. 

“Oh come on, Windu, I’m not stupid. You think I don’t know what a hex inhaler looks like? You should’ve told me.” 

His eyes narrowed. “What I do on my own time is my business.” 

“No,” she snapped. “This affects  _ all _ of us. What if you had shown up for the job high?” 

“Oh, come on, Amidala—”

“Not to mention, the gods damned  _ nerve  _ to steal a controlled substance from a  _ government vault _ .” She clenched her teeth and shook her head. When she’d first seen the cylinder, in the midst of the boat chase, her adrenaline had been too high for her to really process what it meant—the anger that coursed through her now was raw, like the first time. “It’ll take a digital forensics team a little while to figure out what data we copied. But you took something physical. Something real. You might’ve even left fingerprints. The narcotics division is going to be on that  _ tonight _ . You think they’ll just let this go?” 

The Jedi’s jaw tightened. “Doubt it.” 

His simple agreement almost made things worse. “You put us all in danger. All for a stupid fix. And I don’t need the Force to tell me what the shatterpoint of this mission just became. It’s  _ you. _ ”

She shoved at him with one hand, but he remained planted squarely in place—it was like trying to knock over a mountain. “Amidala—” he began, without trying to push back.

“You’re done.” Striding past the Jedi, she brushed against him with her shoulder. As she walked away, he turned to face her. 

“Done?”

Looking back over her shoulder, she replied, “Out. Fired. Call it whatever you want.”

It occurred to her that they’d reversed positions—this time, she was the one with a face of stone, her glare holding the Jedi in place. “You can come back to the hotel to hear the report on what we got,” she told him. “We owe you that much for the help. After that, go back to Coruscant, go get high, I don’t give a damn. You’re done.” 

She doubted his expression would show much of a reaction to the tirade.  _ And I don’t much care what his reaction is anyway.  _ Without waiting for a response, she turned away and stormed toward the university’s Grand Hall, leaving Windu standing alone beneath the flickering lights of the parking lot.

She didn’t bother to look back and see if he’d started to follow her.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: AMPHIBIOUS REPULSORLIFT COIL ARRAY** _

Standard landspeeder-grade repulsorlift coils are only capable of maintaining a hover height of around one meter, and only then above solid ground. An amphibious repulsorlift coil array can be installed—either by a speeder manufacturer or aftermarket—to permit landspeeder use over less solid surfaces like ice, marsh and swampland, or water. 

Amphibious repulsor coils operate at a higher power output than standard landspeeder repulsors—therefore, they are usually installed as a secondary repulsion method rather than as the only repulsor coil on a vehicle. When a driver wishes to move from land to water, power is gradually transferred between the standard and amphibious coils in order to maintain smooth driving conditions—though this is not always effective, and rattling of the vehicle is common during power transfer. 

Though the technology is billed as “amphibious,” this is a slight misnomer—it is not well suited for travel on completely open water. The oscillating motion of waves found within oceans and large lakes can create a feedback loop within the repulsor coil, causing temporary power failure—unless an amphibious landspeeder is capable of unpowered flotation, it is inadvisable to drive it onto any large body of water. 


	37. On Instinct

“It’s unusable.”

Valis couldn’t say she’d been expecting a different answer, but the words still fell against her ears like the toll of a dismal bell. Rubbing at the back of her neck—looking up to meet a Kaminoan’s eyeline caused a lot of unfortunate stiffness—she sighed. “For how long?”

“Much of the equipment will have to be replaced or repaired,” Taun We replied, her own expression void of any discernible emotion, “with a degree of care that the crew of these ships cannot provide. Fortunately, much of the structural damage is superficial”— _ Tell that to the hole I fell through,  _ thought the admiral ruefully—“but nonetheless, I estimate at least two months before this facility will be safe to resume production. That’s also assuming you and Lord Maul disposed of all the . . . misbegotten test subjects.”

Her eyes darting over to look at Maul, Valis noticed his clenched left fist. Other than that tell, however, he kept his cool. “We were thorough, but a squad can be sent down to sweep the entire facility.”

Blinking in the equivalent of a nod, Taun We said, “Prime Minister Yi will expect a report on the status of the mission. Do you wish me to deliver it to her in private, or shall you accompany me?”

There was no hint of an intentional slight in her question, but it rankled. “Taun We,” Valis said coolly—as coolly as she could with her head tilted at 45 degrees, anyway—“I am the one giving the orders here. I and Warlord Maul will speak to the prime minister in my chambers.  _ Then _ , when we have finished, you will deliver your report. Is that clear?”

After a moment of tense silence, the Kaminoan blinked. “Very well, Admiral Valis. I shall return to my quarters and await your command.” Turning, she swept slowly toward the bridge door, her garments flowing behind her.

As the alien departed, Valis shot Maul a quick thought.  _ Two months is as good as could be expected with the state of the place. _

_ As good as can be expected means nothing,  _ he shot back.  _ We wanted an advantage over Mekosk. Now we have nothing but delays. _

She wanted to get angry, for form’s sake if nothing else, but she knew the Zabrak was right. She had promised a cloning facility that was in working order with living staff; instead, they’d uncovered mangled equipment and genetic abominations.  _ We still have an opportunity here,  _ she managed.  _ Which we will discuss after we meet with Yi. _

This was met with silence.

Without looking at Maul, the admiral clenched her hands together behind her back and turned to Rama. “You have the bridge until we return.”

The Pau’an nodded, her eyes a little lost. Valis couldn’t blame her.

She wasn’t sure where things were going anymore either.

 

* * *

 

“Well, if it  _ was _ an assassination attempt, the clones are even stupider than I thought,” Qui-Gon said, her voice echoing through the depths. “He didn’t even manage to take a shot at you.”

“If I didn’t know better,” replied Dooku, dry amusement in his voice, “I’d say I detected disappointment.” He made each step with elegant precision, careful not to step on a husk of rotten machinery or into a puddle of fluid; behind him, the pair of bodyguards who’d come along mirrored his walk, though from the occasional scraping sound Qui-Gon judged they weren’t quite so successful at avoiding junk.

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but I’m rather sure Obi-Wan would’ve been a touch relieved,” she replied, suppressing a smile. “Would have left him and Lorian free to chat with each other about trivia for the rest of the summit.”

“God,” said Jesmyn from up ahead, casting their flashlight’s glow back and forth, “I can’t believe we let this place go so badly.”

The depths were not without a certain gothic charm, thought Qui-Gon as the Arkanian’s light traced the contours of an enormous derelict mining droid-turned-statue, but she could see Jesmyn’s point, especially when a cloud of scavenger robots retreated from the light like a swarm of flies. “Why not just dump them over the side of a platform,” she asked, “if they’re just going to sit here?”

“They’re nominally here to serve as spare parts should the need arise,” replied Jesmyn, turning to look at the other two, “but I think the real answer is that the nobility are packrats. No offense, Count.”

“You could have stayed up top, you know,” said Qui-Gon, pausing and leaning on her cane more than was strictly necessary— _ Have to keep up the performance. _ “If we do find any clones left down here, you’ll be—”

“Accompanied by my bodyguards and fully capable of defending myself,” replied the Count. “Whereas Jesmyn is a mechanic, and you, my dear, are hardly in tip-top shape.”

“You got me,” she said, raising her hands and smirking. “I’m just trying to question your abilities to make myself look better by comparison.”

Dooku himself gave a tiny smile, but as he looked away from his former student and into the reaches of the droid graveyard, his expression faded into faint unease. “If Kenobi’s warship has reliable sensors—and I’ve no reason to think the Republic would have spared any expense there—that clone and however many others came with him arrived before you did. And as you say, if that was an assassination attempt it was spectacularly mismanaged.”

“You don’t suppose . . .”

“That it was a deliberate attempt to lure two Jedi out of the city? Perhaps not. But if it was . . .”  _ It certainly worked, _ was the obvious conclusion.

“Well,” Qui-Gon said, “at least Obi-Wan called in his fighter squadron to keep an eye on things in the upper atmosphere before he and Anakin tore out of here. I’m told they’re quite good. No need to worry.”

The Sawsharks’ watch was in truth small comfort, she knew—if clones were already in Stratum Apolune, there wasn’t anything the pilots could do. And, of course, Dooku would know this as well.  _ But Obi-Wan and Anakin will be back. And if not, well . . .  _ She rolled the top of her cane between her fingers.  _ I’ll do in a pinch. _

“At any rate,” she said aloud, taking a step forward to look her old master in the eyes again, “it’s nice to be on a mission of sorts with you again. Even if that mission is trudging through garbage waiting for something to jump out at us.”

Dooku raised an eyebrow. “Still more exciting than most of our other missions together, if I remember correctly.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. It was true—her chief complaint when studying with the Count had been that, for someone who wanted to be a Knight, she spent far too much of her time in libraries. Not that she’d disliked learning—otherwise Dooku’s cover story of being her university professor would have been incredibly ill-suited to her—but once she’d constructed her lightsaber she’d gotten the itch. To travel the galaxy, battle injustice wherever it might lurk, get into a few fights in the bargain.

_ It’s precisely your readiness to fight, _ he’d told her then,  _ that means you are not ready. _

_ Still haven’t quite learned that lesson, master,  _ she thought to herself.  _ Not that I’m as ready as I’d like to be these days. _

Turning away from him, she raised her voice. “Any luck?”

From ahead, Jesmyn shook their flashlight’s beam back and forth in a negative. “Not that I exactly know what to look for. Perhaps you’d give me a hand?”

“Care to venture forth?” she asked Dooku, extending an arm.

Shaking his head, he replied, “I wouldn’t want to impede the two of you from your investigations. I’ll be here”—he nodded in the direction of his guards, who’d hung a few paces back as the two of them conversed—“if you find anything.”

Nodding, she  simply said, “Of course,” and turned to go after Jesmyn. “They’re rather easy to spot,” she called to the Arkanian as she wound her way around junk, “what with them all having the same face. Should have brought a picture, I suppose.”

 

* * *

 

This was, Valis reflected, the first time she’d had Maul in her quarters aboard the  _ Charybdis _ . If he’d come himself, it would have felt like an invasion of privacy, and even as it was the thought of his amber eyes roaming over her possessions wasn’t a welcome one, but it couldn’t be helped. She did not want to have this conversation on the bridge, nor did she want to use Taun We’s hologram device a second time.

Fortunately, the Zabrak seemed to have little interest in inspecting her living space; he simply locked his eyes on her helper droid as it floated into the center of the room. “Droid,” Valis said— _ Mate _ seemed a little too friendly to use in front of the warlord—“tightbeam communication to Prime Minister Ruala Yi. Encrypted.”

Mate didn’t appear to like Maul all that much—he stayed silent, simply hovering and whirring as he started the transmission. Moment later, he’d spat out a series of scan lines that clustered themselves into an amalgamation of a Kaminoan’s face. “ _ Yi, _ ” the hologram said, voice crackling with static.

“Prime Minister,” Valis began, keeping her voice as neutral as possible, “we have a report on the mission’s status, as you requested.”

“ _ I trust this report will begin with you informing me where you’ve taken my scientist, _ ” said Yi. It was not a question.

Inclining her head slightly, the admiral resumed, “Our goal was to capture a cloning facility that had been set up on the planet Wayland by a criminal syndicate and used for black-market medical practices. Taun We was brought with us in order to evaluate the state of the facility and, if necessary, oversee any changes that needed to be made. Unfortunately, we’ve found that it’s in more disrepair than we had initially planned for, which means that there will need to be some reconstruction—overseen, of course, by your capable engineers and scientists. Taun We estimates we could have an operational facility within two months.”

“ _ Exactly what level of disrepair would necessitate two months of  _ reconstruction _ , as you put it?” _

Gritting her teeth, Valis replied, “There were some . . . aborted experiments that seem to have gone poorly. The criminals who ran the facility seem to have moved from cloning individual body parts to attempting to clone whole organisms. The results ran amok, killed their creators, and caused a considerable amount of damage. We were able to wipe most of them out, but we can’t undo what they’ve already done. I trust you’ll be able to replace whatever equipment they destroyed—”

As she had during their last conversation, Yi suddenly leaned forward, lowering her neck to look Valis in the eye, her head hovering mere inches from the admiral’s. It was rather like a wolf holding your gaze before tearing your throat out, Valis thought. “ _ I was given to understand that this mission, once completed, would yield Kamino a concrete advantage in the war  _ and  _ in the board’s hierarchy. Am I to understand that you now want me to divert valuable resources away from the war effort into a project that will erase any plausible deniability I have as regards your unauthorized mission? _ ”

For the first time, Maul spoke—Valis glanced over and saw that his face was full of barely concealed disdain equal to that of the Prime Minister’s. “Mekosk and his allies would never agree to the construction of a new facility when they could divert funds to toys like the Lancer platforms. Two months of work for an increased output of soldiers and a site for experimental procedures to be performed without his oversight seems a reasonable price.”

Perhaps were she in the same room as the warlord, Yi would have been a bit more reserved; with the safety of a hologram between them, she showed no such caution. “ _ Need I remind you, Warlord Maul, that neither you nor Admiral Valis gives orders to me. The only reason that Executor Mekosk is not aware of your treachery in lying about a Jedi outpost is because I granted you my protection. And now you are making demands on  _ me _? You are not in the position to do anything of the kind. _ ”

“Trust me, Minister,” said Maul, his voice edging toward a growl, “ _ you _ are in no position to threaten me.”

_ Shut. Up,  _ Valis shot at him, taking a step to the right to partially obscure him from Yi. They were in a poor negotiating position as it was; the last thing they needed was for the Prime Minister to think Maul genuinely meant to do her violence (which, for all Valis knew, he did). “With all due respect, Prime Minister, Warlord Maul is correct. You’ll be sacrificing a skeleton crew of your people for two months in exchange for a base in which your scientists can work unrestricted, unobserved.”

“ _ Except by the two of you, of course. Please don’t insult me by thinking you can convince me you view me as an equal, Admiral Valis. _ ” Retracting her neck, the Kaminoan gazed imperiously down upon the two of them. “ _ At any rate, Executor Mekosk is right about one thing. The Lancer, for all its weaknesses, gets immediate results. Results that will bear fruit a good deal faster than two months. _ ”

Out of context, this could have been a hypothetical, but Valis felt the dark side trickle a warning down her neck. “What . . . do you mean?” she asked flatly.

“ _ Ah, I’d forgotten, _ ” said Yi, in a tone that made it clear she hadn’t forgotten at all. “ _ You’ve been under radio silence, you wouldn’t have known. The next Lancer station is operational, and the Executor has expressed  _ great _ interest in testing it. It’s bound for the Aurora system, along with a sizable portion of the fleet. And once it’s done its work, the Executor assures me that Kamino will be granted platforms to erect a new cloning facility—one that he promises will be . . . what were your words, Warlord? Unrestricted and unobserved. _ ”

She couldn’t help it; her voice rose to a shout. “Mekosk is attacking  _ Serenno _ ?”

“ _ Indeed he is. He brought his plan to the Board, and in your absence we took a vote. He won’t be leading the attack himself, naturally; Psoriss Threll, the Archon of Sluis Van, will be in command. I believe that as we speak, operatives are preparing to destroy the communications node for the Aurora system to commence things. A pity you’ll miss it. _ ”

Before Valis could say something, anything, the Kaminoan leaned back in her chair and said, “ _ I think we have exhausted all possible conversation at this time, Admiral Valis. I shall await Taun We’s full report. Until then. _ ”

Mate gave a faint gurgle of static, and the hologram vanished.

 

* * *

 

“You two get on suspiciously well,” Jesmyn told Qui-Gon in a low voice as they ducked between the legs of a still-standing mining unit. “Never thought I’d see Old Man Dooku be so warm with anyone.”

“Oh, I’d say you rival me in the royals’ affections. Viscount Lorian seems to  _ adore _ you from what I saw upstairs.”

The Arkanian snorted. “I’m definitely something of a favorite with him. With his husband? Not so much.”

“Well, you do call him Old Man Dooku. I can’t picture him being thrilled about that.”

“Trust me, if I called him that to his face I’d be out of a job. My security is dubious enough as it is, I don’t need to add to it.”

Now  _ this _ was interesting. “You mean he would seriously—”

“Oh, I’m probably being overdramatic. I do good work, and the Count knows that. He just also knows that I’m not always given to following protocol. Lorian thinks it’s an endearing trait, not so much his husband.”

“So if he knew you’d contacted the  _ Coelacanth _ to fly my ship down here, he’d be very grumpy.”

Qui-Gon withdrew the field of Force perception she’d extended as far through the depths as she could—there were still no clones as far as she could tell, and if her old master’s far more acute senses weren’t picking up anything she doubted hers would. “And speaking of that,” she continued, turning her full attention to Jesmyn, “why  _ did _ you do that? Is being overdramatic just part and parcel of how you operate?”

The Arkanian tried and failed to suppress a grin. “Well, truth be told, I just needed an excuse to get your attention. I’ve been  _ dying _ to know what his Jedi student must have been like, and I have to say you’re not at all what I thought you’d be.”

Qui-Gon’s immediate reaction was to whip her head around to see if Dooku had somehow overheard—to her relief, he and his bodyguards were still standing where she and Jesmyn had left them. Reddening slightly at her panic, she looked back at the droidsmith, whose grin had grown even wider. “Well, you certainly have my attention now.”

“Ahh,” they replied happily, “you’re not denying it.”

“I’m a good enough liar to know when it won’t do any good.” Releasing a shaky laugh, the Jedi asked, “How did you find out?”

“Curiosity and being the Viscount’s favorite are a dangerous combination,  _ especially _ when the Viscount likes to talk too much. I managed to pull it out of him a few years ago, though of course he made me promise not to tell a soul. Which I haven’t, but I figured you could be an exception for obvious reasons.” Jesmyn chuckled. “The poor man was so devastated when he realized he’d blabbed it to me, I almost felt bad for leading him on. Of course, as soon as it happened he clammed up and refused to say anything else about you, so like I said, I’ve been operating mostly on assumptions.”

“So,” Qui-Gon asked, arching an eyebrow, “what is it about me that doesn’t match your mental picture?”

“Well, I pictured someone . . . stuffier. More conventional. Willing to follow an old man’s orders.”

“Oh, he would have liked that, but the Force had other plans.”

“And,” the Arkanian continued, almost as an afterthought, “my mental picture was not  _ nearly _ as beautiful as the genuine article.”

Qui-Gon could feel her heartbeat quicken like it had when she’d first realized she was being flirted with.  _ This is utterly ridiculous,  _ she thought to herself.  _ It’s been years since anything like this has happened, and you’re trading banter in the middle of a hole full of rust.  _ As if to emphasize this, a cloud of scavenger droids whirred by overhead, close enough that the Jedi could hear the clicking of individual limbs.  _ And your friends are chasing after a possible Confederate invasion. You couldn’t have picked a more opportune time to develop a crush? _

And yet, even as she thought this, she heard herself replying with a smile, “Well, I have to say, I would have expected a palace droidsmith to be much more . . . covered in oil and grease. Not very charming. It seems I might have to revise my expectations too.”

Jesmyn cast a furtive glance back toward Dooku, then locked their eyes with Qui-Gon’s. “It’s just a pity the summit isn’t going to last too much longer. It would be so nice to keep tearing down out preconceptions—”

Without thinking, Qui-Gon stepped forward and kissed them.

It wasn’t much—brushing her lips against Jesmyn’s, then pulling back. But she felt a white ball of flame rise up inside her all the same.

When the droidsmith didn’t say anything—just stood there, as if still processing what had happened—Qui-Gon said, “It’s been a long, long time since I had the opportunity to do that, and I don’t know how often I’ll be able to leave Coruscant after this is over, so you’ll forgive me for being forw—”

And then Jesmyn was kissing her back, and the whirring of scavenger droids and moaning of crumbling machinery vanished into the pulsing in Qui-Gon’s ears.

Far too soon for her liking, the droidsmith pulled away—someone was calling them, though Qui-Gon was still too caught up in what happened to be able to tell who it was at first. Then the voice called again, and she realized it was Dooku. “Have you uncovered anything?”

Reluctantly, she turned to shout back, “No, I think Obi-Wan’s man may have been the only one here.”

Nodding, the Count said, “We’d best return to the city. I only hope General Kenobi and young Skywalker will have good news when they return.” He and his bodyguards turned and headed for a turbolift, their silhouettes receding into the darkness of the cavernous chamber.

A sudden whisper tickled Qui-Gon’s ear, making her jump. “I don’t know about you,” Jesmyn murmured, “but I hope they don’t bring their good news back for a little while longer.”

Chuckling, the Jedi looked at Jesmyn and said, “Well, I’ll have to disagree with you there. I suppose if your passion is droids you might find this spot a bit more romantic, but I can’t say I’m a fan of the view.”

“Not even the lighting?”

She moved her gaze along the torches that flickered throughout the deep. “Hmm. Does have a certain ambience, I suppose.” Hefting her cane, the Jedi sighed. “But in all seriousness, as . . . absolutely lovely as the last sixty seconds or so have been, I’m a Jedi. If Obi-Wan and Anakin get back, I can’t be lingering down here.”

The Arkanian frowned, chewing idly on their lower lip, but nodded, sighed in turn, and extended their hand. “Perhaps we could do some lingering back on the upper levels, once they’ve returned?”

Qui-Gon slipped her fingers through Jesmyn’s, dark mingling with white. The warmth of the touch extended from her hand into the rest of her body. “I think that could be arranged.”

 

* * *

 

“This isn’t over yet,” Valis said. The best thing to shake off her shock was movement—brushing past Maul, she began to pace the length of her chambers, from one wall to the other, boots thumping against the tile. “If Yi is smart enough to hold out on us and be making plans with Mekosk as well, she’s smart enough to know stabbing us in the back before victory is assured isn’t the best idea.”

Mate floated by her, his expressionless “face” somehow inquisitive; Valis waved him away. “If something goes wrong at Serenno and he can’t give her her precious facility, she’ll need us as backup, so she can’t afford to betray us to him yet. We should head back to Olympus, consolidate our position with what allies we have there just in case. Worst comes to worst, we have the  _ Charybdis _ and our support ships—”

“You know as well as I do that won’t work,” Maul said quietly. He sounded perfectly calm.

“A plan that probably won’t work is better than no plan at all, Maul,” the admiral snapped, “and considering we just had this dumped on us I’m thinking as fast as I bloody well can.”

“ _ Don’t. Think. _ ”

The bark in those words commanded attention; Valis turned despite herself, though she didn’t stop moving. The Zabrak’s rotting teeth were bared not in the usual threat display but genuine frustration. “Do you think I couldn’t sense what you were feeling fighting those experiments?” he asked, his eyes following her across the room. “For the first time, you did what I said and let the dark side guide you. And it felt  _ right _ . You were in the moment, acting on instinct.”

Lying to him would have been pointless, not to mention childish; Valis knew that the heat of her emotions in the moment he described would have been white-hot in the Force. And she had to admit, he had a point when he said her current semblance of a plan was useless.  _ Racing back to the capital to try to stage a last-ditch coup on the Executive Board is as good as suicide if we have no safeguards in place. Especially considering that even if we succeeded, we’d have Maul’s master to deal with.  _ Halting her pacing, she turned on her heel and looked at him. “Very well, then. What does your instinct propose we do?”

Capitulation was, in a way, a minor victory; she detected the surprise that surged through Maul when she made no argument, and for a moment he simply stood silent, as if he’d been too busy preparing jibes to actually remember what it was the Force had told him. Valis repressed a smirk; then, the warlord spoke.

“We know where the attack force that will hit Serenno has to be coming from, and we know they’ll emerge from hyperspace at the edge of the system, to avoid detection. We also know that Wayland is far closer to the system than Olympus is, which means that even though they have a head start, we can get there first.”

At this, he allowed himself a grim, feral grin. “When they emerge from hyperspace, we’ll be waiting to assume command and lead the attack. The dark side will let us know what do do from there.”

Making the jump to the Aurora system and launching themselves into a siege they’d had no part in planning or preparing for was ludicrous. It was dangerous, it was stupid, and it could easily end with Psoriss Threll and her ships blowing the  _ Charybdis _ out of the sky.

But even as Maul suggested it, Valis felt a heat blooming within her chest, a core of pulsing excitement. Her thoughts flitted back to Yi’s smug revelation of Mekosk’s counteroffer, and her fury stoked the excitement’s fire, turning it white-hot.

He was right. She knew what she had felt in the midst of the wrecked cloning facility. And turning over his idea in her mind, Valis admitted to herself that the savage anticipation it stirred within her, no matter how foolhardy, was a much better feeling than the impotent frustration her best-laid plans had gotten her over the last several days.

Looking Maul directly in his amber eyes, she said, “I’ll order the jump immediately.”

As she strode out of her chambers, the Zabrak fell in alongside her. He did not, as would have been customary, lurk behind her, ever-watchful, or take the lead so that she had to follow him.

The two walked together, united in purpose and in step, to the bridge.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: THE DEPTHS OF STRATUM APOLUNE** _

As the population of Serenno’s numerous floating platforms grew, it became more economical to build those platforms upward rather than expanding them outward. Thus, descending through the levels of a Serenno city platform becomes a journey through that platform’s history—terminating in a structural style now referred to as The Depths. 

These Depths are the remnants of Serenno’s first settlement platforms—crude structures built by miners to facilitate the harvest of the moon’s raw materials. Exposed piping, metal grate flooring, and archaic incandescent lighting are all hallmarks of The Depths. Today, each platform’s Depths house essential city utilities like water, power, and comm lines. They also serve as a dumping ground for mining mechs that have fallen into disrepair. 

Over the years, The Depths of Stratum Apolune have formed a sort of self sustaining mechanical ecosystem. Spider-like “scavver droids” roam The Depths, harvesting parts off the mining mechs discarded there. The droids use the parts to maintain the networks of piping found under each platform, as well as for performing self-repair. Serennan droidsmiths have even noticed fluctuations in scavver droid populations which coincide with availability of materials—when few parts are available, the scavver droids will harvest each other; when there is a wealth of old mining mechs to pick over, the scavver droid colonies will build new units to help with the harvest.


	38. Splitting Up

As Bail Organa and his staff poured into their hotel suite, the senator breathed a deep sigh of relief. The night was over, and they’d done it. He’d survived the party, and his crew had survived the heist. Snatching a bottle of whiskey off the counter as he moved through the suite’s living room, Bail settled into one of the plush chairs and allowed himself to sink into it. 

“Well, that didn’t quite go as planned,” Padmé said, as she barged in, pulling off her boots and collapsing onto the couch. Leaning back and propping her feet up on the coffee table, she exhaled slowly. 

“Where the hell’s Windu?” Ellis asked as she sat down beside Padmé, drink already in hand. 

“Mace Windu is with you?” 

At the sound of this unexpected voice, Padmé shot to her feet and spun around, holdout blaster in hand. Standing in the doorframe of Bail’s bedroom was a lavender-skinned Twi’lek wearing a collared button-down shirt and tweed jacket. 

“It’s fine, Padmé!” Bail exclaimed, sitting up in his seat. “She’s a friend. And a Jedi.”

“And a  _ what _ ?” his head of security barked, her blaster wavering not an inch.

“Padmé. Gun?”

“Oh,” she muttered, lowering the sidearm. “Sorry. I just . . . gods, you couldn’t have mentioned it?”

“Let she who is without secret Jedi friends cast the first stone. And besides, she wasn’t with us until”—he stopped to check the chronometer on his wrist—“two hours ago.”

Stepping forward, Tyyria nodded at Padmé and took a seat next to Bail. “We’re all on the same side. Trust me, I have no love for the Chancellor. Now, what was this about Mace Windu being with—”

“Nox,” said a new voice. Bail glanced at the doorway and saw Padmé’s Jedi filling it. Well, not quite filling—something about his appearance was off, as though he’d somehow shrunk a few inches. With uncharacteristic hesitancy, he stepped into the suite and took up a position just inside, making no move to sit down. “Can’t say I expected to see you here. Thought you preferred libraries to fieldwork.”

“It’s been a little bit of both,” confessed Tyyria, tilting her head to adjust the position of her lekku.

A sudden light of comprehension dawned in Padmé’s eyes. “ _ You’re _ the one we kept seeing in the library.”

The Twi’lek nodded. “I expect I was there for the same reasons you were.”

“Looking into our fine fascist friend? Yep, that’s about the size of it.” Padmé resumed her position on the couch, sliding her blaster back into its holster.

“Tyyria’s joined our little endeavor,” Bail explained, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees as he recounted the evening’s events to the heist crew. He’d expected the tale of his botched speech to summon a bit more amusement—Raymus and Ellis chuckled, but all Padmé managed was a strained smile. Windu remained emotionless, not that that was a surprise. “So Tyyria managed to buy some time talking to him,” Bail finished. “Evidently it was enough."

“Well, welcome aboard,” Padmé said to the Twi’lek with a polite, almost distracted nod. “Appreciate it.” Pleasantries done, she turned to glance at her droid. “I guess now’s as good a time as any, Liz. Wanna run through what you’ve found?” 

Liz—who had been standing against one of the hotel suite’s walls, silently processing data—stepped forward to join the rest of the room’s occupants. Her eyes, Bail was relieved to note, were sapphire blue—the last thing they needed was for her to get particularly belligerent and so something rash with the information. “I finished indexing the data while you wrapped up at the banquet, then began running a search for anything pertaining to the planet Telos IV—the CIS-held world where the current governor of Theed province, one of Palpatine’s former staff members, still appears to possess a profitable farm.”

The droid took another step into the center of the living room, stopping just short of the coffee table, and held out a hand. From the hand, a blue-tinged holographic image materialized over the table—first of the entire galaxy, then of the northern Outer Rim, then the Telos system itself. 

“Telos IV is home to a rather large orbital space facility, once used to terraform the planet and make it into a suitable agro-world,” Liz explained. “Based on the financial transactions and communication data we extracted, it appears this orbital station is now being used by the CIS as a shipyard. Monthly payments from the governor to a corporation on Telos—indicated in the finance transfer memos as being for farm upkeep—match an encrypted payment schedule buried in the data cache. That payment schedule appears to be intended to finance construction of something called ‘Lancer.’” 

“Wait,  _ Lancer?”  _ Padmé interrupted, her eyes wide. “You mean the Crust Buster we blew up? I thought they built that thing at their main shipyard above Sluis Van.” 

They did,” Bail added. “Republic Intelligence is all but certain of it.” 

“Don’t tell me they’re building another one,” Raymus muttered. 

“ _ Built  _ another one,” Liz interrupted. “That payment schedule I mentioned only ran until a few weeks ago. I have to assume that whatever they were building is finished now.”

A palpable chill fell over the room. “The first one was the biggest leg up the Confederacy has gotten for the entire war,” Kazan said, his voice nearly choked with horror. “If they have another one finished . . .” 

With a burst of throat-clearing, Windu took a step closer to the conversation. “We can worry about the superweapon later. For now, I want to know if we got what we came here for.”

Ellis looked at him as though he’d slapped her. “What the hell are you talking about?” the Clawdite asked. “You mean you’re not concerned about—”

“ _ Can we pin this on Palpatine? _ ” the Jedi asked, raising his voice above her protest. “This obviously nails the governor, but that’s not why I came here. Do we have actionable proof that the Chancellor is tied to these transactions?”

The droid’s eyes snapped red. “Windu, if you think I found a flashing sign with the words ‘Palpatine is guilty’ you’ve got another thought coming.”

“I just can’t imagine him doing something like this,” Raymus said, shaking his head. “To exploit the war for his personal benefit, sure, but to finance city killers—”

A sudden, horrible realization dawned on Bail. “Wait. Liz, zoom the map back out. The galactic north portion of the Outer Rim . . .” He trailed off, waiting for the droid to do so. As the projection of the Telos system shrank and the northern Outer Rim came into view, the senator’s stomach began to sink. “Highlight the hyperlanes.” Travel routes began to glow, connecting the blinking dots of planetary systems like a great spider’s web. One in particular stood out. A straight line containing only three jumps that connected Telos . . . 

. . . and Serenno. 

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Padmé said—her voice was shaky, and as Bail glanced at her he could tell she was struggling to keep it together. “The Confederacy has to know we have a diplomatic envoy there. Palpatine’s declaration of sending them was very . . . public.” 

Bail shook his head, trying to will away the reality that was setting in. “Attacking a diplomatic summit is insane. The CIS hasn’t done anything like it.”  

“Yet,” came another voice—Tyyria’s. The Twi’lek Jedi was strangely serene. “But deploying their new weapon of mass destruction in such a manner would make quite a statement to other worlds seeking to join the Republic.” 

“No one said it wasn’t smart,” Padmé snapped. “That doesn’t mean I have to be okay with it.”

She rose to her feet, turning to face Liz. “Call Anakin. Now.” The droid nodded, and the holographic galaxy map faded away. 

“Calling,” she said, strangely devoid of any emotion. After what felt like an eternity of silence, the droid spoke again. “The call will be audio only. Connecting you now.” 

Anakin Skywalker’s distorted voice emerged from Liz’s vocabulator.  _ “Well, this is a nice surprise. You would  _ not  _ believe the day I’m having—” _

“Shut up and listen to me, Anakin. There is a gods-damned Crust Buster three systems away from you.”

“ _ A Lancer station? Yeah, we know. We found data about it, Obi-Wan already left for the construction site. He’s gonna disable it.” _

Bail was seized with a perverse urge to laugh, thinking back to what had happened when Obi-Wan last attempted such a thing.  _ Well, I’ve got two Jedi on my side to help him now if things go south instead of just Qui-Gon. I suppose that’s something.  _ Then he glanced at Padmé, and the look on her face shut down any hysterical humor he might have seen in the situation.

For one of the first times he’d known her, she looked genuinely afraid.

Outwardly, she had gone white. Her voice, however, she kept mostly calm, seemingly through sheer force of will. “Construction site? Anakin, no, this is a completely operational Lancer station.”

Static came across the comm line for several seconds. Finally, Anakin spoke, though his tone of voice was quiet and shaky. “ _ You’re sure?”  _

“Absolutely. Obi-Wan really went by himself?” 

_ “. . . yeah. Yeah he did.”  _

Exhaling slowly, Padmé clenched her fists. “Okay, when did he leave?”

“ _ Maybe twenty minutes ago, I— _ ”

The sound coming from Liz’s mouth abruptly ceased.

“Gods  _ damn _ it, call him back,” Padmé barked at the droid.

“A please would be nice,” growled Liz. A few seconds passed; then, “No luck.”

“What do you mean?” Padmé snapped.

“The call was interrupted as soon as it was routed to the Aurora system’s communications node. There wasn’t even an attempt at an uplink.” The droid’s crimson eyes slowly faded to blue, her voice shrinking into timidity. “Oh dear.”

“What do you mean, ‘Oh dear’?” Ellis asked, her own voice full of foreboding.

“If I’m unable to access the node at all, that means either we’re having problems on our end or . . . or it’s been shut down or destroyed.”

For a second that seemed to hang there for several minutes, no one moved. Then, jumping to her feet, Bail’s head of security moved to grab her boots. “Okay, you absolute idiots,” she muttered under her breath. “Help is coming whether you want it or not.”

Bail looked up at Padmé and raised an eyebrow. “What help do you plan on sending, exactly?” 

“I’m going after him,” she replied, stepping around the coffee table and marching toward the door. Spinning around, she jabbed a finger in Tyyria’s direction. “And you’re coming with me.”

Tyyria’s eyes widened in surprise. “Surely General Kenobi can take care of himself?"

“You don’t know him like we do,” Liz said, her eyes still blue—it wasn’t a jab but worry.

“If he had a Star Destroyer, sure,” said Padmé, bending down to pull her boots on. “Alone against a whole space station that he doesn’t know is operational? He’s gonna need help. So, again”—she looked up and pointed at Tyyria—“you’re coming with me.”

“No, she’s not,” Windu said, stepping into Padmé’s line of sight. “I am.”

“Windu,” she hissed, “get out of my way.”

Windu had hardly been cordial for most of the trip, but the sudden animosity between him and Padmé—who’d been getting along with him better than anyone—was completely inexplicable. Nor, Bail could see, was he the only one who felt that way; Ellis, Kazan, and Ramys looked similarly bewildered.  _ What the hell happened between the vault robbery and his entrance up here? _

“Look,” the Jedi said to her, “you’re pissed, I understand that. But no offense, Nox is not up for this job.”

“And you are?”

With the air of someone trying his hardest not to roll his eyes, Windu turned to Tyyria. “Nox, do you even have a lightsaber?”

The Twi’lek’s smooth demeanor cracked just a little; she looked at the carpet as she answered, “Well, um, when I went on field duty I borrowed one from the Temple armory.”

Padmé shot back, in a tone so blusteringly confident that Bail knew she was actually very concerned by this news, “So what? She’s got the Force, that’s better than a laser sword anyway.”

“Amidala—”

“Windu, you are  _ OUT. _ ” 

_ Okay, this has gone on long enough. _ Bail cleared his throat; after Padmé had turned back around to look at him, he said, “Look, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here, but Raymus and the rest of us should go fire up the  _ Sundered Heart _ if we’re going to be rendezvousing with the  _ Spice Dancer _ and going on a rescue mission.”

“Bail, you’re not going.” She turned to regard Raymus, Kazan, and Ellis, all of whom had risen from their seats as if ready to walk out the door after her. “Me, Tyyria, Liz, that’s it.”

Usually when she told him what to do, Bail didn’t think twice about it—it was just who she was. After all, she even gave Obi-Wan, an actual general, orders. But lingering embarrassment from his earlier speech and the looming dread that welled in him every moment—for Obi-Wan, for Serenno, for their own situation—were mingling into a throbbing case of irritability. “The hell I’m not,” he snapped back. “I just helped you break into a secure vault to try to get dirt on a fellow politician, you really think going on a rescue mission against the people we’re currently at war with is going to make my situation any worse?”

“I think that bringing in a ship as big as the  _ Sundered Heart _ is stupid as hell. Our only shot at this is to sneak in and get him off.”

“Okay,” Ellis said, “so we all go in your ship, then. We can all be of use, and if you end up needing more than three people—”

“And it’s not just that,” Padmé continued, her tone maddeningly superior. “Think about how it looks if you just flee the system for an unknown location right after Palpatine discovers the vault was broken into, Bail. We already failed to dig up anything concrete on him—but that means the situation is just the same as it was. You drawing attention now is only gonna make things worse.”

“So my head of security is giving me orders now,” he said, his voice rising. “I’ve known Obi-Wan longer than you have—”

“So do what you know he’d want you to do, Bail. Go back to Coruscant. Keep your head down.”

Bail opened his mouth to shoot back a half-formed retort, but Padmé evidently didn’t have the inclination or the time to argue further. “Come on, guys,” she said, and then half-ran out of the room and into the hallway beyond.

Liz loped after her owner with mechanical clanking. Tyyria stood there, looking unsure; the tips of her lekku twitched restlessly.

Sighing, Bail waved his hand. “Go. Just go. And thanks for the help.”

The Twi’lek shot Bail an apologetic look. “It was good to meet you, Senator Organa. I hope the next time is under better circumstances.” With that, she hastily exited the suite.

Bail considered running after them, but it was pointless. Padmé, he knew, was right.

“Welp,” Ellis said, lowering herself back onto the couch, “we seem to have lost  _ all _ our Jedi friends.”

Indeed—as Bail looked around the suite, Windu was nowhere to be seen.  _ Good bloody riddance. _

“We are, it would seem, back to square one,” he said, his voice straining for calm. Leaning forward, he poured himself a new glass of whiskey. “I suppose we should check the holonet, see if anything is being said about the vault robbery.”

Kazan frowned, his grizzled face somewhat incredulous. “All due respect, sir, but shouldn’t we be reporting the Lancer station above Telos?”

“We’ll have to hope Obi-Wan already did,” replied the senator. He took a gulp of whiskey; it soured on his tongue and slid down his throat like oil. “Padmé was right. We have to keep our heads down.”

“But sir—” Raymus said tentatively.

Bail exploded.

“ _ DAMN  _ it, Antilles, do you think I don’t know how much of a coward that makes me sound like?” he shouted, flinging his glass to the carpet. “But think about how it looks for a minute. After a vault is robbed at an event that I’ve now firmly tied myself to, I suddenly start raving to the military that I somehow know a crustbuster is floating above Telos? What happens if they ask for proof?”

Looking down at the pool of whiskey that was now soaking into the carpet, he felt his cheeks flush red but didn’t stop. “Either I refuse to tell them and look like a lunatic—the man who started the Clone Wars going off again—or I tell them and then get promptly thrown in jail and tried for treason, along with the rest of you. And  _ if _ Palpatine is tied to this—which we have absolutely no proof of, in case that didn’t get through to you—he won’t be in the pardoning mood.”

“So what do we do?” Ellis asked quietly.

Bail bent down to pick up the glass, the sudden burst of furious energy he’d had already spent.  _ I, for one, rage at the people who just risked their necks while I was making speeches at a party. Nothing else  _ to  _ do.  _ “We wait out the rest of tonight,” he said aloud, “and we go back to Coruscant. No more digging into the Chancellor’s past, no wild stories about superweapons.

“And we hope to god that Padmé and the others get the job done.”

 

* * *

 

As Mace Windu walked down the street, breathing in the cool night air, he ran his fingers over the metal cylinder he carried in his sleeve. It wasn’t his lightsaber—it was the inhaler.

His hand was trembling just the faintest bit—he wanted more than anything else to just jam the thing into his nostril, to get some relief from the fire in his nerves for just a few hours, to dim the latticework of shatterpoints running through his head. But he couldn’t, not now.

There was work to do.

He’d have to hitch a ride offplanet—stealing a ship wouldn’t work, not so soon after a very public vault robbery. But that could wait. Palpatine, he knew, wouldn’t be returning to Coruscant so soon, not after what had just happened under his nose. He’d stay here, in Theed, for the first few days of the investigation, looking for answers.

And Mace needed answers of his own.

The Telos information was a start. Amidala’s droid had said there were no concrete links between the Chancellor and those Lancer transactions, but Mace didn’t need numbers. Palpatine’s knot of crystal sang through the Force—the shatterpoint was so huge it was almost as if the Jedi’s entire existence was shot through with cracks.

What Mace had learned in that vault had changed things. He and the Chancellor were now tied, directly.

Mace Windu was a shatterpoint himself, now. And the galaxy hung in the balance.

So after Palpatine had left Theed, Mace wouldn’t go back to Coruscant—not right away. First, he had a visit to pay. He needed some advice.

From an old master.

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: AGRO-WORLDS** _

Agro-worlds are planets whose entire landmass is devoted to large scale farming operations in order to support the food needs of a sector of space. Though farming is done in some scale on habitable garden worlds, many settled sectors consist mostly of worlds not suitable for agriculture. In those instances, the Senate Committee on Agriculture (or equivalent body, if the sector of space is independent of the Republic) selects a planet to serve as the region’s agro-world. Parcels on an agro-world are divided up among a number of farmers or corporations so that no individual controls a majority of the agro-worlds output; this amount of leverage over a sector’s food supply is considered dangerous, hence the regulation. 

When an agro-world is needed but no planets are suitable, one is created—massive terraforming stations are used to transform hostile ecosystems into ones suitable for large scale food growth. This is a significant undertaking costing large amounts of both time and money—thus, disrupting an agro-world terraforming operation carries harsh penalties. Much like major population centers, agro-worlds often employ planetary shields. The types of shields used above agro-worlds function not only as a defense mechanism, but as a method of climate control. 

As hydroponics technologies have advanced, settled worlds across the galaxy have come to rely less on the food exports of agro-worlds. Crops grown on roaming space stations can supply nutrients to even the harshest of planets. In response, some agro-worlds have shifted to growing luxury exports—crops that do not grow well in hydroponics labs—and supplying them to the galaxy’s wealthier citizens. Despite the waning need for agro-worlds, they remain heavily regulated by the Senate Committee on Agriculture. In the interest of preserving an agro-world’s ecosystem, several technologies are outright banned planetside, and each world is subject to a strict limit on its population. 


	39. Set Course

Droplets danced along the viewport of Karin Janzen’s Z-95—as the cloud her fighter sliced through condensed on the transparisteel, pinpoints of water wriggled along, converging into one another before disappearing out of view. Then, in what seemed like an instant, it all evaporated as she shot free of the towering cumulonimbus. Endless sky stretched out to the horizon, dotted by towering cloud clusters—they seemed almost golden, kissed by the light of the low-hanging evening sun.

“Okay, form back up on me,” Karin said aloud, reaching up with her free hand to adjust her helmet microphone. “Let’s keep it tight and take care of this fast; I don’t want to overstay our welcome. Got that, Sawsharks?” 

“Sawsharks,” she supposed, was a bit of a misnomer. The full squadron hadn’t accompanied her down to Serenno—she wasn’t even leading a properly assembled flight. It was just her and the three other pilots who had happened to be in the hangar when Commander Cody had ordered them to launch. 

“ _What’re you worried about?”_ teased one such pilot—the squadron’s resident Bith, Roland G’ex. “ _Afraid we’ll piss off Dooku?”_

“That’s  _ Count  _ Dooku, Sawshark Eight,” Karin said, pausing to roll her eyes. “And based on the way the general talks about him, he’s not a man you want to piss off.” 

Another pilot’s voice crackled to life in her ear. “ _I hear he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the_ Coelacanth _’s_ _grand entrance. Might be best to keep the fighters away from the city.”_

“That’s the goal, Four,” Karin replied, glancing to her right as the starfighter of Garven Dreis pulled up alongside her. Then, turning to her left, she shot a snappy nod at Sawshark Two—her wingmate Shiiva. 

_ “So, what exactly are we looking for?”  _ Roland asked—glancing over her shoulder, Karin could see his fighter settle into its spot in the formation. 

“ _ The CIS,”  _ Shiiva said before Karin could answer. “ _ A clone crashed the party on Stratum Apolune.”  _

_ “There was a party?”  _ Roland said, the whine in his voice evident even over the distortion of the comm.  _ “So we’ve been eating mess hall food all week while the ground team gets to live it up?”  _

Karin grinned. “You ever been to a diplomatic function, Eight? Trust me, the way those things drag will make you miss the mess hall.” That brought a chuckle from Sawsharks Two and Four—though the laughter that filled the comm line was abruptly cut off when a gentle  _ ping  _ sounded in Karin’s cockpit. 

“ _ Got something on sensors!”  _ Garven Dreis said—Karin felt her grip on the control stick tighten as her eyes wandered down to the sensor display. 

Shiiva’s voice crackled in Karin’s ear. “ _ What’re we dealing with?”  _

An uncomfortable pause hung in the air as the quartet of starfighters sailed through the atmosphere. There was only the rush of wind and the hiss of comm static, until the slightest chuckle broke the silence. 

“ _ It’s a vulture fighter.”  _

Karin struggled to suppress a smirk. She fondly recalled the first time she’d seen the Confederacy’s newest space superiority craft. Not in combat—rather, it had been while Sawshark Squadron was enjoying some down time in their communal pilots’ lounge aboard the  _ Coelacanth _ . Anakin Skywalker, never one to strictly follow protocol, had brought the squadron a set of classified scans taken from a Republic recon mission. He, along with the dozen other fighter jockeys, had gone about picking apart the enemy ship’s design. 

_ Looks bad on paper, sure,  _ Karin had said of the vehicle’s transformational abilities—its wings were capable of pitching forward, allowing the body of the fighter to move along land like a sort of walker.  _ Land the thing in a swamp, or on the beach, and that _ —she recalled pausing, leaning back on the couch, and gesturing with a half-empty beer glass toward the point where the wings met the fighter’s body— _ will get all gunked up. Too many moving parts.  _

If reports from recent skirmishes were to be believed, her guess had been right. The vulture fighter’s “variable geometry” mechanism was apparently rather delicate, prone to locking up at the presence of grit or debris. Not that it mattered in this instance. The fighter was in flight mode, and it could do plenty of damage that way. 

“ _ Better stop it before it gets to Stratum Apolune,”  _ Dreis called out over the comm. “ _ Preparing to fire.”  _

“Not yet!” Karin said. “I don’t think it’s seen us. I want to make sure we’re alone.” With a free hand, she reached toward her cockpit’s sensor readout and began dialing up the instrument’s sensitivity—with any luck, cranking up the device would allow her to detect any other nearby vulture fighters.

As the strength of the sensors increased, her Z-95 fighter also began pulling in additional data on the ship they pursued. “Its shields are offline,” Karin said. 

_ “Could probably take it out in one hit,”  _ Shiiva replied, finishing Karin’s own line of thinking.  _ “A well-placed concussion missile would do it.”  _

“You read my mind. If you’ve got a lock, go for it.” 

_ “Acquiring target.”  _

Almost robotically, Karin’s left hand continued to ease the dial on her sensor equipment higher and higher. Her eyes flicked back and forth—up toward the drab fighter slicing through the tinted blue of Serenno’s evening sky, then back down toward her sensor readout. 

_ “Firing.”  _

More data about their target streamed across Karin’s display. Hyperdrive—inactive. Communications suite—incompatible with Republic comms, contact impossible. Weapons—offline. 

“ _ Payload away.”  _

“Wait!” 

Karin had spoken too late. Only moments after her wingmate had fired, Sawshark Leader had discovered that the vulture fighter’s weapons were completely powered down. Whoever was flying the fighter was evidently not looking for a fight. 

They were also an impossibly good pilot. 

As the concussion missile streaked toward the vulture fighter, the ship twisted into a spin that would’ve made Karin vomit, at the same time pitching upward so the projectile passed underneath it. The vulture fighter’s engine backwash ignited the warhead, setting it off and releasing a spray of shrapnel into the sky. 

Moments later, the shields of the Sawshark fighters sizzled as they flew through the cloud of razor-sharp metal. Karin winced and gripped her control stick as it wavered slightly—though she tried to keep her eyes on the vulture fighter as it moved through the air. 

It was listing backwards now, toward the Sawsharks, as though its pilot had slammed on the brakes. And then, as it was just above Karin’s Z-95, the vulture fighter rolled upside down. It now flew no more than a meter directly above her, its cockpit lined up with her own. 

_ “God DAMN,”  _ she heard over the comm—Roland G’ex was clearly in awe at the maneuver. Karin couldn’t help but smile. There was only one pilot she knew who could pull that off. 

Sawshark Leader looked up, staring into the cockpit of the fighter that was keeping pace and flying upside down just above her. Sat within was none other than Anakin Skywalker, wearing an uneasy grimace across his face. Karin had known the pilot long enough to consider the expression unusual—something was clearly bothering him, but it didn’t stop him from hoisting his mechanical arm into the air and waving at Karin 

Despite Anakin’s odd demeanor, Karin couldn’t help but crack a smile as she waved back.

 

* * *

 

As she stood inches from the viewport, face to face with the pane of transparisteel, Valis’ faint reflection loomed large over the objects in the distance. Her form seemed to dwarf the capital ships and frigates grouped in the space outside the  _ Charybdis _ —with a hint of a smirk, she reached up and placed a thumb and finger on each end of a distant  _ Dictat  _ cruiser, pretending to crush the ship as she pinched her digits together. 

An unamused cough tore her from her reverie. Turning,  Valis’ eyes fell on the impatiently pacing form of Lord Maul. His hands were clasped behind his back. Though he wore a cloak over his onyx tunic, the hood was down—his amber irises seemed to glow, the overhead light glinted off his pointed horns. 

“I fail to understand why we are holding this meeting in here,” the Zabrak grumbled. 

Valis glanced from left to right, taking in the space around them. They stood not on the bridge of their warship, but rather in Valis’ cabin. Maul was pacing back and forth in front of the bookshelf, while Valis stood near the panoramic window along the opposite bulkhead. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? We can’t discuss this in front of the bridge crew.” 

“She’s bridge crew.” 

Valis followed Maul’s gloved finger to the couch set in one corner of her cabin. Haliath Rama sat nestled among its cushions—the Pau’an executive officer looked rather casual compared to her counterparts, with feet perched up on the slate glass coffee table and one arm draped along the back of the furniture. Rama’s eyes narrowed. “She means the clones.” 

“You don’t trust the wetworks?” Maul asked, a slight scowl playing across his face as he looked back at the admiral. “They brought us to Wayland without incident. We spoke openly in front of them before, why not now?” 

“It is not an issue of trust,” Valis said, moving to lean against the cabin’s desk. “I fear their programming has not prepared them to gracefully lose a battle on purpose.” 

Though he faced away from her, Valis felt the flare of anger radiate off Maul through the Force. As he whirled around, his cloak mimicking the motion with a slight delay, she could see the fire behind his irises. 

“Lose?” His fists were clenched, his teeth bared—Valis could hear the leather of his gloves creaking under the tension, the hiss of air escaping his mouth as he took sharp, rushed breaths. “What possible reason could you have for wanting to  _ lose on purpose _ ? This may be Mekosk’s undertaking, but we have arrived to take command. Capturing Serenno will be a show of our strength. Through strength, we gain power—”

“—and through power, victory,” Valis interrupted, continuing the old Sith adage. “Yes. But not our victory. Mekosk’s.” Shoving away from the desk, she stood tall and strolled forward into the center of the room. “If we win at Serenno, Prime Minister Yi gets a new cloning facility, courtesy of the Chief Executor. A cloning facility on Kamino, which will pull resources away from the restoration efforts at Wayland.

“But if we lose”—she raised a finger in the air, then lowered it almost immediately when she realized Maul had little appreciation for dramatic flair—“the Kaminoans will be entirely available to assist us.” 

Maul shook his head slowly, crossing his arms in apparent disappointment. “If we fail here as we failed at Had Abbadon, the rest of the Confederacy will think us useless. Or worse, they will see our effort for what it is: intentionally undermining them.” 

“Well,” Valis said, failing to hold back a slight smirk, “ _ we  _ won’t be the ones failing, exactly. She will.” In a mirror of the Sith lord’s earlier motion, Valis raised a pointed finger at the seated executive officer. “Missteps in command will be attributed not to malice, but to inexperience.” She paused, shooting a sideways glance at Rama. “No offense.” 

The Pau’an shrugged and casually waved a hand. 

Meeting Maul’s gaze, Valis could see that he was less than satisfied with the explanation she’d given. The Zabrak’s eyes narrowed. “If she is in command, where will we be?” 

“Down on Serenno. Fighting—and winning—the only battle that matters. Tell me, Lord Maul. Have you read the intelligence briefing for this assignment?” 

He shifted his weight onto his back foot and crossed his arms, but said nothing. 

“I assumed not. The Republic has sent a diplomatic envoy to Serenno’s capital city, led by none other than General Kenobi.” Valis gestured to Rama—from the couch, her XO clicked a small handheld remote with a slight flourish of the wrist. A miniature hologram of the Jedi general flickered into existence atop Valis’ desk.  

At this, Maul’s entire demeanor changed. His impatient stance became one of battle readiness, like an animal waiting to pounce. His eyes were wide, his teeth bared in a snarl. “And Skywalker is with him?” 

“Oh, yes. But it gets even better. They are accompanied by a woman from the Republic’s Office of Interplanetary Outreach. Someone I believe you’ve had the displeasure of meeting. She is called Qui-Gon Jinn.” Another gesture to Rama saw Kenobi’s hologram replaced with that of another human—this one leaned into a cane, her lengthy grey coat fluttering behind her. “A chance to finish what you started on Had Abbadon, no?” 

A devilish grin crept up the sides of Maul’s mouth. “Today we will spill Jedi blood.” 

“And though the Confederacy will lose Serenno,” Valis said, “ _ we” _ —she gestured between Maul and herself—”will come away with a victory. Once we arrive in system, we need only wait for the right excuse to make planetfall. Then, Rama will take command of the  _ Charybdis.”  _

“Well done, Valis,” Maul said with a nod. Then he slowly turned to glare at Rama, who had risen from her spot on the couch. 

The Pau’an shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another as the Zabrak stared her down. “I’ll return to the bridge and make preparations for the next jump to hyperspace,” she said, snapping into a salute. Then, gliding to the cabin door as it  _ whooshed  _ aside, she disappeared from the room. 

Maul spun to face Valis. “What if she betrays us? Need I remind you what your last Executive Officer attempted?” 

Valis moved around behind the desk, lowering herself into her office chair. As she sat down, a spidery droid skittered up from the floor and onto the desk’s surface. “I’m screening all communications to and from the ship,” she said, motioning to Mate—the robot bobbed up and down in place, emitting a slight whirring noise at random intervals. “If she tries to contact anyone on the Board, she’ll be dead before the call connects.” Spinning in her chair, Valis poked at the computer terminal set into her desk. It came to life, casting a glow against her pale face. 

Maul, who stood hunched over the opposite side of the desk, nodded. “Just give the word if you’d like me to kill her.” 

Valis looked up from the terminal, turning slowly to face Maul. A gentle shake of her head accompanied the slightest hint of a humorless laugh. “That’s alright. If we need to remove another Executive Officer . . . well, this time I’ll do it myself.” 

“Of course.” As Maul rose to his full height, ships outside the viewport began winking out of existence—each accompanied by a gentle  _ thwump  _ on the auditory simulator. When he reached the cabin’s exit and the door slid aside, the stars outside the viewport smeared into blue streaks. 

Valis was too preoccupied with the view outside to notice him leave—by the time she’d looked away from the window, Maul was gone. Alone now, with only her droid for company, she leaned down to one of the drawers set in her desk and slid it open. “Mate,” she said as she extracted a small mechanic’s toolbox and dropped it on the desktop, “lock the door.” Reaching down to her belt, she unclipped the lightsaber and placed it beside the toolbox. The droid let out a  _ ding  _ sound, an apparent confirmation that her cabin entry was now sealed. 

Without waiting for instruction, the droid scurried across the desk and settled into place beside the silvery lightsaber hilt. It placed a handful of its spidery limbs on the weapon—at the same time, its body tilted back, as though it were looking up at Valis.

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding at the droid. “We’ve got some time. Best get back to work.”

 

* * *

  
  


Anakin hit the deck of the landing platform with a grunt, his mechanical arm  _ clanking  _ against the surface as it took the brunt of the impact. He’d been forced to leap from the cockpit of the stolen vulture fighter—there was no way to gracefully exit the vehicle after it had landed. Its cockpit was suspended several meters above the ground by the wings-turned-legs; Anakin took one last backward glance at the perched fighter as he rose to his feet, then spun to face the approaching crowd of people. 

Count Dooku was at the head of the group, and he looked furious. He moved with a sort of graceful anger, stalking toward Anakin as his cape flowed behind him. When the count was within earshot, he called, his voice ringing out across the platform, “Skywalker!” 

_ Oh boy,  _ Anakin thought, wincing.  _ Here we go.  _

The count kept striding forward until he was face to face with Anakin, then dropped his voice to a hushed tone. “The Republic delegation was to keep military vehicles away from the city. That includes your starfighters. My people are starting to panic.” 

Anakin risked a glance beyond Dooku’s stare—behind him were Lorian, Qui-Gon, and her new friend Jesmyn. Beyond them were a cluster of dock workers and maintenance staff for the landing pad—and they did indeed look panicked. 

“A clone disrupted our evening, you ran off without explanation, and on top of that, technicians tell me that our communications network is down.” 

Anakin bobbed his head up and down in a rapid nod. “That’s because the Confederacy is coming.” 

“‘Coming?’” Dooku echoed, raising an eyebrow. He gestured toward the parked vulture fighter behind Anakin. “They seem to already be here. Where did you get that?” 

“We found an abandoned city,” he answered—though Dooku seemed unfazed by the news. 

“We have several vacant platform clusters in the region,” another voice—Lorian’s—called out. The viscount moved forward until he stood beside his husband. “What did you find?” 

“Clones,” Anakin answered, still struggling to believe the information swirling around in his head. “Clones, and . . . equipment”—he gestured behind him to the vulture fighter—“and a databank. Count Dooku, they’re—”

“That’s enough.” Dooku held up a hand to silence Anakin. “We should continue this conversation in private.” 

Anakin glanced over Dooku’s shoulder again—the Serennan citizens working on the landing platform had mostly stopped what they were doing, and were intently watching the exchange happening in front of the parked starfighter. He nodded. “Of course.” 

“Lorian,” Dooku said, turning to face the man, “go prepare a conference room in the administrative building.” Then, glancing behind him at his droidsmith: “Jesmyn, dispose of this machine.” He gestured flippantly at the vulture fighter, then spun around and glided toward the landing pad exit, cape flowing behind him. 

Lorian rushed to catch up to Dooku, while Jesmyn moved past Anakin and ran a hand along the leg of the vulture fighter. He watched as the Arkanian stared longingly at the ship—he’d seen the look before, one of a pilot wanting to fly a ship they couldn’t have. Hell, he’d been that pilot on more than one occasion, browsing the hangars of Junkfort Station long before he had enough money to actually buy a ship of his own. 

Jesmyn motioned off to the side of the platform, where a landing pad mechanic was waiting with a ladder. Placing the ladder against the body of the fighter, the Arkanian clambered up it, settling themselves into the open cockpit with a wave and a smile. 

Anakin raised an eyebrow, confused at the gesture—though as he glanced over his shoulder it quickly became apparent that it had not been directed at him. Qui-Gon now stood just behind Anakin, and was mirroring Jesmyn’s wave. Anakin fully turned to face her—as the vulture fighter lifted off from the landing platform, wind whipped through the two Jedi’s hair and sent ripples across their clothing. 

“Anakin,” Qui-Gon began, leaning into her cane—the warmth that had played across her face as she’d waved at Jesmyn had completely disappeared, replaced with a look of worry. She trailed off after saying his name, and silence lingered between them on the landing platform as the Jedi glanced at her feet. “Where’s Obi-Wan?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, flesh hand automatically reaching to his pocket for the code cylinder his master had given him. Then he caught a maintenance worker out of the corner of his eye—one who was clearly listening to their exchange quite intently. 

“Ah, well,” Anakin said, drawing out the words. “We better talk about that in private too.”

 

* * *

 

The conference room lacked the grandeur of the palace, Qui-Gon thought. Though the space was well furnished, the decor was far more practical—no towering statues, stained glass, or intricate ceiling work. It was instead a simple office space, much like the Interplanetary Outreach building she’d spent so much time avoiding. 

Along one wall, a series of large windows framed different city platforms hovering outside. A block of apartments, a floating theatre, a cluster of restaurants, and the palace itself—all contained on their own city block sized platforms, with gaps in between that looked down into the abyss. 

The conference table itself had no chairs around it—they’d been pushed to the room’s outer walls, leaving space for Lorian to nervously pace from one end of the table to another while Dooku leaned against it, palms planted on the tabletop. Jesmyn and Anakin were both fiddling with the table’s holoprojector. Qui-Gon tapped her cane nervously against the floor, though its dull carpeting absorbed the sound almost entirely. 

Anakin had spent the past few minutes catching everyone up on what he’d found—the news of his call from Padmé, which had been disconnected before they could finish speaking, prompted Lorian to ask about the state of the planet’s comm network.  

“I looked into that on my way over here, actually,” Jesmyn said, stepping back from the holoprojector and briefly glancing at everyone else in the room. “Our own system’s comm equipment is just fine. Data makes it off the planet, it just doesn’t get much farther than that. If it is the CIS, and they’re preparing for an invasion . . . we can’t call for help.” 

“We could  _ send _ for help,” Qui-Gon said, lifting an open palm into the air as if offering the idea to the room. She looked at Anakin “We could have the  _ Coelacanth _ jump a few systems away to where the holonet nodes work, then send a message for us. They may bump into the CIS fleet, but a Star Destroyer should be able to hold its own long enough to get a message out.”

“No,” Anakin replied. “That leaves us completely unprotected if the Confederacy shows up here.” 

“Aren’t we jumping to conclusions here?” Lorian asked, stopping at one end of the table briefly before continuing his pacing. “We don’t know for certain the CIS is even coming here.”

“They are.” 

It was Dooku—he stood perfectly still, palms still planted on the table and eyes closed, breathing in measured intervals. “They are coming.” He looked up and opened his eyes. “That lone soldier was the beginning of something greater, I can feel that much.” He turned to glare at Anakin. “Skywalker, how certain are you that this  _ Lancer  _ station is bound for us?” 

Anakin looked down at the floor, then back up at Dooku. “Padmé wouldn’t have called me if it wasn’t a threat. I’m sure of it.” 

Qui-Gon watched as Dooku’s eyes now fell to her. Her old master said nothing, and as she stared back she could see the weariness in his eyes. This was a man who was getting dragged into something he never intended to be a part of. Someone who only wanted to protect his home.

And then she had an idea. 

“You could surrender.” 

Now everyone’s eyes were on Qui-Gon; expressions ranging from curiosity to confusion stared at her. “Think about it: if the Republic leaves the system, there will be nobody for the CIS to fight. You can surrender right away, save Stratum Apolune. We can come back later and free you.” 

Wordlessly the count barked a humorless laugh, though his furrowed brow told a different story—Qui-Gon could tell her old master appeared to actually be considering the idea. 

“How soon can you be out of the system?” Lorian asked, looking up at Anakin. 

“Well, uh,” he began, trailing off momentarily. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour to clear out, but . . .”

“Don’t go.” 

It was Dooku, holding up one hand and shaking his head. “It is no secret I haven’t been the most receptive during your visit,” he said, turning first to Qui-Gon and then to Anakin. “Joining the Republic is not something I ever wished to do. But you came to me and offered a choice . . . and that is something I know the Confederacy has no intention of doing. If they come here and we don’t defend ourselves, we  _ will  _ be members of the CIS whether we want to or not.”

At this, her thoughts flitted to Palpatine’s proposed annexation of border worlds. She promptly clamped down on the memory—it would not do to have Dooku worrying about that when a much more immediate problem was knocking on their door.  _ Wait until we’re not being shot at. _

Her old master pushed back from the table and rose to his full height, and his demeanor seemed to shift. It was a side of him Qui-Gon hadn’t seen in some time, one that brought a smile to her face—he was poised and collected, ready to prepare to face the enemy, as he had been on their countless assignments together as Jedi. 

The count stepped back, sweeping his gaze across the room before stopping to look at Qui-Gon.  “We fight back. But let me be clear: I am fighting for the freedom to choose. Even with your assistance, Serenno may not join the Republic after this is over.” 

She hesitated one moment longer than she should have, and then nodded. “Understood, sir.” 

Glancing at Anakin, he continued: “You’ve faced one of these stations before. How do we prepare?” 

Anakin’s brow scrunched, and he reached a hand up to his chin, pausing to consider the question. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, it was directed not at Dooku—but Lorian. “You said the city can move?” 

The viscount cocked his head to one side. “It can, yes. Slowly, and it consumes a lot of power. It’s designed for evading weather patterns, not dodging orbital bombardments.”

“The  _ Lancer  _ doesn’t fire traditional orbital bombardments, though. It’s a single-shot cannon that takes several minutes to reload.” A grin crept up Anakin’s face. “And it’s a whole lot harder to hit a moving target.”

Lorian’s eyes flicked across the room, falling on Jesmyn—Qui-Gon sensed the viscount’s fleeting hope that perhaps the droidsmith would shoot down the idea, dismiss it as impractical. 

Instead, they strode forward to the holoprojector, casting aside the floating image of the  _ Lancer  _ and replacing it with one of Stratum Apolune. “This could work,” Jesmyn muttered as they poked at various pieces of the image. First, they pulled their hands apart, and each floating platform in the projection drifted apart from its neighbor. The highway-width gaps between each city block quadrupled in size, the cables connecting each building becoming taut as they pulled apart. 

“There,” Jesmyn said, gesturing to the image. “If we spread the platforms apart, there’s more space in between for them to miss.” They continued to manipulate the hologram, grabbing individual platforms and pulling them away from the city cluster. At first they pulled one or two platforms out, but then they began grabbing entire handfuls—little blue towers that represented entire city blocks of office buildings and entertainment venues and shopping districts—and tossing them out of the city. When they were done, the holoprojection of Stratum Apolune was perhaps half the size it had been.   

“We can disconnect less essential platforms and leave them behind when we start moving. That’ll reduce the stress on the locomotion system every time we move.” Finally, Jesmyn grabbed one of the taller buildings in the projection and dragged their hand down it, starting at the peak of the tower and ending at the bottom. The tower’s hologram became even more transparent, as though Jesmyn had hollowed it out. 

“Better evacuate the biggest residential towers,” they said. “If it’s anything like their past attacks, that’s the first thing the  _ Lancer _ ’s gonna aim for.” Reaching above the projection of the city, Jesmyn smacked a fist downward onto the top of the apartment tower. It exploded into a shower of light pinpoints, leaving a large gap in the cluster of city platforms. “At least when they hit the apartments, they’ll be empty.”

The Arkanian glanced up at Anakin. “Think they’ll try to land ground troops?” 

“Probably,” the man said with a shrug. “It’d be an easy way to overwhelm us.”

“Okay, so we move the city away from the sun. Pull ourselves fully into nighttime.” Swiping a hand across the conference table, Jesmyn dragged the virtual cityscape into relative darkness—the windows on each of the buildings began to glow as though miniature residents inside had turned the lights on. “We know the platforms well enough to navigate in the dark, but the clones won’t. We can set up choke points, arm people to fight back.” Across the projection of the city, little red dots representing said choke points began blinking in unison.

“I like it,” Qui-Gon said. “Take every advantage we can get.” 

“We’ll have to shut down nonessential systems,” Jesmyn continued—the lights in the windows of the virtual cityscape flickered off, and the blinking beacons on the comm towers atop most buildings went dark. “Just so there’s enough power to keep the city moving. Even then, we might have to stop every half hour or so to let the power cells recharge a bit.” 

“It’s better than not moving at all,” Lorian said, his voice uneasy. 

“We can monitor everything from here,” Anakin said, “assuming your admin building has the setup to do that?” Jesmyn shot him a quick nod, at the same time swiping across the hologram of Stratum Apolune. It flickered momentarily—when it returned to life, it was no longer the hypothetical city map that Jesmyn had manipulated. It was once again an accurate representation of the city’s current state. 

“This’ll update as we start moving stuff around, ditching platforms and whatnot. Hopefully when we’re done we can put the whole city back together again.”  

“Great. You all know this place better than I do, so I’ll let you get started.” Anakin extracted a commlink from his pocket and waved it in the air. “I’m gonna call the  _ Coelacanth,  _ let everyone know what’s going on.” As he reached the conference room door, he spun back around to face the room.

Qui-Gon watched as, with that signature Skywalker grin, Anakin waved and let out an exasperated sigh, offering his parting words: “Welcome to the Clone Wars, everybody.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: SERENNO—DROIDSMITHS** _

The droidsmiths of Serenno are legendary technicians, masters in the art of crafting bespoke droids. On the moon of Serenno, their work mostly involves constructing and repairing the hulking mining mechs which dive into the depths of the moon’s atmosphere. However, droidsmiths are also known to take on projects for offworld clients. For the right price a droidsmith will assemble anything from a robotic butler to an autonomous mechanical bodyguard. 

Of particular interest in the droidsmith community is the occupation of Palace Droidsmith—the droidsmith who personally serves the Count and Viscount of Serenno. It is one of the few royal roles on Serenno that is not hereditary— Palace Droidsmiths are hand-selected by the current Count or Viscount from the entire pool of droidsmiths on the moon, and though they are free to decline the job offer, no one ever has. Throughout the moon’s history, the job has strayed slightly outside the conventional definition of droidsmith. The Palace has little need for a constant droid repairperson, and thus the Palace Droidsmith is free to fill their time with additional work—whatever the Count requires. 

Before Serenno was united under a singular government, the various Counts employed droidsmiths who were also political operatives—whether acting as lobbyists or assassins, these droidsmiths “dealt with” their ruler’s political opponents. In modern times, a Palace Droidsmith usually serves a broader technical role. Though they can be found repairing mining droids, they will also attend to any other mechanical needs the Palace or capital city has. They often function as the Count or Viscount’s personal pilot, and are trained to fight alongside the palace guard in the unlikely event of an assassination attempt.   


	40. To War

In the Throne Room of Stratum Apolune, Dooku sits alone.

He could have asked Lorian to join him—his husband is personable, friendly, easier for the public to like. But that’s precisely why the Count has decided it’s best that the Viscount be elsewhere. What his citizens need right now isn’t a friend. They need a leader. Someone who will do what must be done.

Shifting position just slightly on the throne, he feels something in his lower back ache and wishes that, if this had to happen, it could have been ten years ago. He prides himself on self-possession, but he must admit that leading his people into war is something he might be too old for.

Nevertheless, the war is here, and he is here, and the Force does not deal in what-might-have-beens. There is only what exists in the now.

Looking into the drone cam that hovers a few feet in front of him, he exhales slowly, silently. Raises his head to a more regal angle. Speaks.

“Citizens of Serenno.

“A few hours ago, rumors began circulating throughout Stratum Apolune that something was amiss. Let me reassure you that both myself and Viscount Lorian are unharmed, as are our esteemed guests from the Republic. However, there is news I must share with you.

“We have discovered that, unbeknownst to either our sensors or the Republic envoys, the Confederacy has successfully landed troops on an abandoned platform network near the capital city. General Kenobi successfully dealt with the clone soldiers he encountered there, but in doing so uncovered evidence that the Confederacy plans to arrive in force, soon.

“With the time we have remaining, we shall do all we can to fortify our planet against attack. The Star Destroyer  _ Coelacanth _ has elected to remain here for our protection; it will do what it can to hold the line in space, while its starfighters will intercept any attempts made by the Confederacy to send troops into the atmosphere. They are sending what arms they can to the surface for our security forces to defend us, if need be, block to block.

“Stratum Apolune itself, we can only assume, will be the Confederacy’s chief target. We are taking preventative measures to reduce the risk of damage, but in this we also depend on you. We will be evacuating the largest residential areas to more secure locations; when this happens, I entreat you not to linger but to move as quickly as you can. Those of you who have spacecraft I ask not to flee—should the Confederacy arrive unexpectedly, any ships leaving atmosphere risk being shot down.

“Our communications have been disrupted, which means you will have no way of contacting friends or loved ones offworld, nor do we have any means of sending for help. For this, I am sorry. Know, however, that you are not alone. I shall do all that is in my power to resist this threat to our sovereignty, our culture, and our lives. And though Serenno and the Republic have our differences, today our fight is the same.

“For thousands of years, our moon has stood against all threats with courage, with determination, and with dignity. May we do the same today.

“Thank you all.”

The drone cam’s broadcast light winks off, and Dooku rises from the throne. His head, held perfectly, regally high throughout his address, sinks. For several moments, he examines the tile at his feet, the light playing across it filtered all the colors of a rainbow by the stained glass windows.

Then he pulls himself high once more, and goes to war.

 

* * *

 

Bit by bit, inch by inch, Stratum Apolune tears itself apart.

A low moan rises throughout the city as cables that have not shifted in decades begin to move, stretching themselves strained and rigid as platforms pull away from each other. It’s a thing one feels more than hears: a deep, throbbing vibration that carries from the foundations of the capital to its highest spires.

The dismemberment is slow enough that, watching in real time, it’s almost impossible to discern. Were one to watch a time-lapse, though, they would see a City—singular, unified, self-contained—fading away. The platforms are still connected, but tenuously, delicately. They are becoming their own entities, distinct from one another.

Beings of every kind move inward from the outer edges—on shuttles, on speeders, on foot. There’s no panic, not yet; looking up into the peaceful sky, the idea of a malevolent force arriving up above seems distant, unreal. And so, citizens move slowly, calmly, though parents look significantly into each other’s eyes when their children aren’t watching, and glances are thrown up at the clouds.

When the outer ring of residential platforms has been emptied, there’s a hiss of escaping air. Cables, already pulled to their limit, detach. The platforms drift alone, like derelict lifeboats on a placid sea.

From a distance, it’s beautiful.

 

* * *

 

Watching the palace guards stream out from every nook and cranny was severely disorienting; Anakin had assumed that they were restricted to an elite few, but evidently the ones who weren’t directly guarding Dooku were simply good at hiding. Lorian directed them where to go as the Jedi simply observed—not only did the Viscount know the palace far better than he did, he doubted anyone would take kindly to a Republic military official trying to order around the Count’s personal defenders.

Fortunately, the palace armory seemed to have more than electrostaves buried within it. The guards were now toting blaster rifles—older models but still perfectly deadly-looking—and setting up gun emplacements on outer balconies. Below the palace spire, they were flooding into the streets, setting up choke points.

_ Let’s hope we don’t need those.  _ If the clones made it far enough into Stratum Apolune to set foot on the central platform, Anakin knew, everyone was screwed. Though, then again, they were equally screwed if no clones landed and the  _ Lancer _ station decided to start taking potshots.

_ Obi-Wan, now would be a really good time for you to show up and let us know you blew the damn thing up. _

Anakin rubbed at the code cylinder in his pocket. Cody had been . . . less than pleased to discover who Obi-Wan had entrusted it to, but his grouchiness aside, he was doing what the Jedi told him. To be honest, Anakin would have felt better if the commander had refused to obey his orders and taken over things.

He shook his head— _ Get it together, Skywalker _ —and raised his commlink to his lips. “Supply drop inbound?”

“ _ They’re about two minutes out, _ ” Cody replied. “ _ I’ll leave the men behind to man the turrets, if it’s all the same to the Count, Skywalker. No offense to his troops, but I don’t exactly trust them to handle the tech. _ ”

“Yeah, well, if I don’t tell him he can’t say no,” Anakin muttered, casting a look over his shoulder to make sure Dooku was out of earshot even though he knew the Count was in the impromptu war room. “I don’t suppose our gunners are good enough to shoot down a  _ Lancer _ torpedo?”

“ _ I doubt even you’re that good. If the clones try to land transports, though, they’ll give them some trouble. _ ”

Two dark specks had appeared in the air, headed for the city. “Okay, I think that’s them. Patch me into the Sawsharks, would you?”

As the feed switched over, Anakin turned and headed back inside. “What’s the word, Karin?” he asked, striding toward the conference room.

“ _ Still not picking up any activity up above. I’ve got Rin and Roland monitoring that abandoned platform you and the general were on. Roland would like to report that the jellyfish give him the creeps. _ ”

He coughed an approximation of a laugh into the comm. “Well, keep at it. And tell them to keep away from the tentacles.”

“ _ Copy that. _ ”

Shoving the comm into his pocket and waving at the two guards bracketing the door, Anakin pushed into the new center of operations. Jesmyn’s holographic representation of Stratum Apolune hovered above the table, though the droidsmith themself was elsewhere. Qui-Gon, Dooku, and Lorian were clustered around the table, watching the city slowly divide itself up.

“I miss anything good?” the young Jedi asked.

“The outermost residential areas have been evacuated and detached,” replied Lorian, gesturing at the semicircle of pale blue towers whose tethers had been cut. “We’re concentrating civilians in the middle platforms, keeping them away from the palace. If the Confederacy takes a shot, we want their target to be as empty as possible.”

“Speaking of taking shots, we’ve got a couple of LAAT ships coming down with some extra kick. Couple of mobile AA turrets.” When Dooku raised a questioning eyebrow, he clarified, “Munitions platforms with treads, basically. They’ll run out of ammo sooner or later, but if our pilots let anything through we’ve got an extra line of defense. We’re gonna try to get a field hospital set up too.” Clearing his throat, he looked around the room. “Hey, where did Jesmyn get to? I should talk to them about how many other platforms we’re ditching.”

“I’ll go after them,” Qui-Gon volunteered, transferring her cane to her right hand and heading as briskly as possible for the door. “Not much for me to do here but wait.”

Nodding, Anakin stepped aside to let her through. “Get back here soon. A stray Jedi isn’t something I wanna worry about right now.”

As the door swept shut behind her, Lorian looked up from the holoprojector, where he’d intently been watching the Republic supply drop touch down. “In your professional opinion, young Skywalker,” he said, hesitating, as though finishing the question would make it real. “What chance do we have?”

Anakin opened his mouth to reply. Closed it again. Squeezed his mechanical hand shut as tight as he could. “Getting out of scrapes is kind of my career,” he began, “so I think we should—”

“Be honest with me. Please,” the Viscount interrupted gravely, his eyes boring into Anakin. “Trying to protect us won’t do anything helpful.”

Feeling himself flush, Anakin was silent for a moment, then spoke. “The  _ Coelacanth _ has pulled off battles with bad odds before. But usually Obi-Wan was there. And we have no idea how many ships the Confederacy is bringing in. If they attack with few enough, maybe. If Obi-Wan manages to sabotage the crustbuster, maybe. But . . .” He gave a long, slow exhalation. “This is bad.”

“And there is positively no way to call for help?” Dooku asked, his voice perhaps the quietest Anakin had ever heard it.

Something in its timbre chilled Anakin. It wasn’t frightened, but it was tired and empty and  _ old _ .

“You said it yourself in your speech,” he managed. “Any small ships that try to escape once the CIS gets here will probably be shot down. And even if we were to send one out now, they’d probably get yanked out of hyperspace at the nearest junction by ships the CIS left and get blown to pieces. The only ship we have that’s big enough to survive something like that is the  _ Coelacanth _ , and we can’t afford for them to leave.”

Count and Viscount both nodded slowly. “Thank you,” Lorian said, his voice catching on the first syllable. “That’s all I needed to know.”

Anakin took a step forward. “Look. Obi-Wan is out there trying his hardest to disable the  _ Lancer _ before it gets here, and I guarantee the  _ Coelacanth _ and the Sawsharks will do everything they can to buy us time. And we’ve got three Force users down here, that has to stack our luck a little higher, right?” When neither noble said anything, he sighed. “Yeah, I get it, pep talks aren’t my thing. But we’ll do our best.”

Looking into the old men’s eyes, he remembered his promise to another old man back on Coruscant.  _ I promise you, sir. We won’t let you down.  _ The relief in Palpatine’s eyes.  _ I knew I could count on you. _

_ You may have spoken too soon, sir. _

 

* * *

 

“ _ This is  _ entirely _ irregular, Valis, and I won’t stand for it. _ ”

The admiral sneered at the snake-being whose hologram Mate was projecting onto the chamber floor. “What you  _ stand _ for is irrelevant, Threll. Warlord Maul and I are both here, and last time I checked that means we outvote you. Unless Executor Mekosk happens to be here in person, which I doubt.”

Archon Psoriss Threll raised her hood, its coloring shifting to a livid orange. “ _ You spend days gallivanting in the middle of nowhere looking for some cock-and-bull Jedi base, then decide you’re in the mood to lead an offensive and expect me to just turn over command to you. _ ”

“You must admit, the  _ Charybdis _ is a much better flagship than . . . whatever it is you’re flying.” From the look of the images her XO had beamed down to her, Valis thought the archon’s “battle cruiser” was essentially a deathbox frigate with an ornate coat of paint. “And here we thought you’d be making a grand entrance on Mekosk’s new pet project. Where  _ is _ the new Lancer station?”

“ _ It will rendevous with us when it’s ready. Some of us, Admiral, have patience. _ ”

“And some of us, Threll, have an actual military rank. If you don’t slave your ships’ navicomputers to ours in the next two minutes, I’ll be forced to take emergency measures and take control of this war party by force. Valis out.”

She slashed a hand across her throat, and Mate cut the signal.

From off-camera, Maul gave a grudgingly appreciative grunt. “More direct than usual.”

“Let her stew. The more hot under the collar she is for the battle, the better.” Smiling in satisfaction despite herself, Valis lowered herself into a chair. “She’ll turn over command to us for now—she knows she can’t beat us when the odds are even, and all she’s got for support ships right now are a few deathboxes. When we reach the Aurora system, though . . . things could get interesting.” The rest of the Archon’s fleet, Valis assumed, would be coming with the  _ Lancer _ . Granted, even a few small ships were probably enough to secure a single moon with, but Mekosk would want to put on a show.

“You don’t sound concerned,” Maul noted.

“Nor do you.”

Nodding, the Zabrak began his usual pacing. “By the time she attempts to dispose of our forces—if that should happen—we’ll be elsewhere.”

“And she might not even make the move at that. Sours things for her if she can’t kill us and reports reach the rest of the board that Serenno was lost due to petty infighting.” Stretching with a faint grimace—she hadn’t had a chance to properly work the kinks from her body after the last few days’ work—she rose from her chair. “I’d best get things on the move. I assume you’ll be in your chambers?”

“Yes. Alert me when we’re set to make the last jump to Serenno.” With that, Maul turned on his heel and left.

_ Don’t let it feel  _ too _ good, working together with him,  _ the admiral chided herself. Not only was Maul still Maul, their plan was hardly assured. And any strategy that depended on throwing a battle of vital importance was only implemented when one was absolutely desperate.

Nevertheless, something within her sang.  _ No matter how this is going to go, the dark side likes it. _

“Page Rama,” she told Mate. “We’ve got a battle to lose.”

 

* * *

 

Across the  _ Charybdis _ and her frigates, the same face prepares for battle, over and over and over again.

Wordlessly, expressions blank, human clones secure themselves within dull grey armor, ice-white eyes vanishing behind visors. Blasters, pulse rifles, grenades, are strapped on in a steady rhythm. On the decks below them, within more secure chambers, the same Trandoshan snout snarls and barks at its brethren dozens of times over, picking up plasma shotguns and rocket launchers and gleaming vibroblades.

Givin pilots prime the starfighters that hang from racks, the same mechanical chittering echoing through hangars twenty times over. Artillery specialists load torpedoes into barrels, power cells into cannons. Bridge crews plot the course to Serenno, widen sensor range, divert power to forward shields, power up gravity well generators with a low  _ thrummmm _ .

The non-clone officers who preside over these events may tell their friends, their colleagues, each other, that they’ve gotten used to this macabre spectacle—a single individual split into a thousand units, repeating the same simple tasks  _ en masse _ in a symphony of labor. It is a lie. They can suppress the chills, but they never entirely go away—especially when one catches a glimpse of a clone’s milky, dead irises. An army of droids would be less unsettling. They, at least, are firmly outside the realm of the living. But automatons that can bleed?

And so, the officers look anywhere but at their men. At fellow “real” humans on the bridge. At their own faces in the floor. Or out the viewport into the stars beyond.

 

* * *

 

Jesmyn was not exactly a  _ familiar _ presence, but after what had happened in the droid graveyard, Qui-Gon was already intimately familiar with their aura in the Force—and, unlike Anakin, she’d been paying attention during the tangents of Lorian’s tour. She knew exactly where the Arkanian would have gone—and how to reach it.

The palace’s droid housing unit was like nothing so much as a gigantic stable, the stalls each tall enough to hold four Qui-Gons stacked on top of each other. Unlike the Depths, though, where droids had been crumbling statues enduring their decrepitude alone, this place was teeming with life. Organic techs ran back and forth, making adjustments to joints and limbs; above them, smaller droids flitted from behemoth to behemoth, extending tools and buzzing merrily. The miner units themselves stood passively, swaying gently back and forth, occasionally emitting low buzzing noises.

Jesmyn themself was clustered in a control room that was a little bit bigger than a broom closet, tapping frantically at a computer console. Waving to get their attention, Qui-Gon mouthed  _ Let me in? _ and started forward, absentmindedly swinging her cane back and forth as she walked. Circumstances had suddenly made her careful hiding of her renewed health seem a bit silly.

The door swung open; Jesmyn laid a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder for a brief moment, the touch sending warmth through the Jedi’s body, and then turned back to what they were doing. A strand of pearl hair hung across their face, and sweat was running down their skin—in contrast to the balconies of the upper levels, the droid housing unit was close and hot, something the narrow confines of this room didn’t help. “How did you—”

“Jedi, remember?”

The Arkanian managed a polite half-laugh. “How silly of me. Why did you—”

“Anakin sent me. He needs you back up top to oversee the next stage of platform-cutting.” Without any pretense at stealth, Qui-Gon leaned over Jesmyn’s shoulder to study the screen they were working on. “What are you up to?”

“Carving some significant bits out of the mining units’ programming,” they replied, blowing futilely at the strand of hair that bisected their face. “As it is now, they’ve got some incredibly strict walls set up to prevent them from ever harming a living thing. I’m stripping that down so they can hurt the  _ right _ people, if they need to.”

A pang of alarm shot through Qui-Gon. “Ahh, Jesmyn, isn’t that a rather complicated procedure?”

“Facial recognition,” the Arkanian replied. “All the clones have the same faces, makes it easy for the droids to know who to bludgeon to death.”

_ There’s a saying about desperate times, Jinn,  _ she thought to herself, but the justification rang hollow. “The Count, I have a feeling, wouldn’t be happy to know you’re doing this,” she said, her tone as carefully far from admonishing as she could make it.

“So don’t tell him.” After a few last keystrokes, the droidsmith sank back into their chair and sighed. “There, done. We can use them to reinforce chokepoints. They can take a hell of a beating before they’re put out of commission—if they can survive at crush depth, blaster rifles won’t be able to do much.”

Her heart sinking, Qui-Gon tried again. “If he already doesn’t like you as you told me, and you’re directly going against his wishes—”

“If you think I’m worried about my career right now, Qui-Gon,” Jesmyn snapped, turning to look her in the eye, “you’re not the person I thought you were. So stop tiptoeing around and tell me you’re worried I’ve screwed something up.”

Sighing, Qui-Gon cast a look out the window at a long line of mining units, each one several stories high, with fists the size of speeders. “Those droids are a very dangerous thing to risk getting wrong.”

She had the droidsmith at a disadvantage. Qui-Gon could feel the emotions under Jesmyn’s irritation—terror of the storm to come, fear that they had indeed reprogrammed the mining droids imperfectly, and beneath everything a desperate love for their home that was threatening to tear them to pieces. Outwardly, though, Jesmyn simply said, “Look, I know we haven’t known each other long, but I’m asking you to trust me. If it comes to the point where we even need to deploy these things, it’ll probably be too late anyway.”

Qui-Gon didn’t trust them.  _ I like you—quite a bit. But I wouldn’t trust anyone under these circumstances. _

But she also knew they couldn’t waste time arguing, and that her old master was indeed  _ old _ , and that they needed every possible advantage they had if they were going to make it through the night.

“Please just come with me?” she asked, extending her hand.

Relief pouring through them, Jesmyn took the proffered hand with her their own and let Qui-Gon lead them upward.

 

* * *

 

“ _ Petition to never have us visit a planet with flying jellyfish ever again, boss? _ ” Roland’s voice crackled through Karin Janzen’s comm.

“It’s a moon, Roland,” she shot back, rolling her eyes. “And look at it this way, they’re gonna make it easier for you to spot anything leaving that platform. Speaking of, still nothing?”

“ _ Oh, a transport left five minutes ago, I just didn’t tell you about it. _ ”

“Copy that.” Sighing, she returned her attention to the purple-blue sky outside her viewport. “Okay, listen up, everyone. Anakin says they’re gonna start moving the city any time now, so those of us who aren’t there already are gonna be headed into the dark. Those of us who’re guarding Stratum Apolune will have less sky to cover. Make sure you keep a general idea of where the AA platforms are in your heads, we’ll want them to get in as many shots as they can if anything makes it into the atmosphere.”

A Rodian’s voice said over the comm, “ _ Still nothing up here in space. Leader, I’ve gotta ask, what do we do if the CIS shows up and launches ten squadrons at once? We’re down to a skeleton crew as it is. _ ”

“Great question, Beeko.” Bending down, Karin muted her mic and swore in a succession of words that would have impressed a Hutt spacer. The profanity out of her system, she reopened the channel and said, “The  _ Coelacanth _ will do its best with the concussion missile tubes and tractor beams. If you have to, try to lure some fighters into the other moons’ airspace. The priority isn’t blowing ‘em up, it’s keeping them away from the city.”

As the line went silent, Karin took a look out her viewport at said city. It had grown smaller in the few minutes since she’d last taken it in—empty platforms bobbed in its wake like buoys. Barely visible against the sky were a few specks darting around those platforms—Karin’s fellow Sawsharks. Counting her, there were four Z-95s guarding Stratum Apolune. Roland and Rin were on the other side of a storm system, keeping an eye on the derelict platform where General Kenobi and Anakin had trailed their clone friend. The other six squadron members were in the upper atmosphere and the vacuum of space, waiting for hostile ships to make their entrance.

They, along with the  _ Coelacanth _ , two AA towers and the pair of LAAT gunships that had deployed them, the Serenno palace guard, and Anakin Skywalker were the sum total of Serenno’s defenses.

“‘What’s the plan, Karin?’” she said to herself, watching a bolt of lightning arc through a cloud far in the distance. “Wait for a damn miracle, that’s what.”

She’d faced death before, of course—at this point in the war all the times she’d done so were starting to blur together. But she’d always assumed that were she to die, it would be for the Republic, or for a friend, or for her leaders. Not for a floating city on a moon that hadn’t even joined up yet.

“ _ Okay, Karin, _ ” Anakin Skywalker suddenly spoke into her ear. “ _ We’re gonna start moving in a few seconds here. Don’t plow into us. _ ”

“Copy that, boss.” Pushing her reverie to the back of her mind, she switched channels to her three wingmen. “Okay, everyone, get clear of the platforms and watch the show.”

 

* * *

 

Night falls across Stratum Apolune.

As it drifts across the sky, it looks like nothing so much as the jellyfish bloom on the other side of the hurricane; cables trail like tentacles, lights shine like those of a fleet of ships. It’s a miles-long series of torches sailing into the darkness, headed for an uneasy future.

More ancillary platforms detach as the remaining bulk forge ahead; they continue to float, but their lights go dim, no longer connected to their power source. They exist in a twilight realm, perpetual dusk, shrouded in deep, deep blue.

Stratum Apolune is in the black. Deep within the lower levels of its middle ring of platforms, where its citizens sit and wait and pray, a shrill whine can be heard—the city’s power cells exerting themselves. Movement on this scale is reserved for avoiding the steadily oncoming storm systems that wash over much of the moon; the effort they’re expending is seen once every decade at most.

Dooku, from atop his spire, feels the whine to his bones. Every time he’s heard it in the past, once it’s stopped, it’s been silent for years. If Obi-Wan Kenobi has failed, he knows, this will only be the first of many times that he’ll hear the sound tonight.

He looks up into the inky blackness that’s swallowing the city up; then he looks behind him, where Jesmyn and Qui-Gon and Skywalker stand watching too. The droidsmith’s jaw works back and forth, their face rigid with anxiety; almost as if they aren’t aware of it, they squeeze Qui-Gon’s hand. His former apprentice bears a mask of outward serenity, but Dooku can feel the apprehension beneath the surface. Skywalker, not one to hide his emotions, looks small, like a frightened boy.

Then Dooku looks to his left, where his husband is calmly watching the night unfurl. His arm is around the Count’s shoulders, lending him strength.

His voice quite steady, rich, and deep—almost its old self again—Dooku speaks. “It is time.”

Jesmyn nods, and speaks into the comm they carry in their free hand. “All nonessential systems halt.”

As though a tidal wave of shadow is falling across the city, all lights snap to nothingness. Transit systems shudder to a halt; electronics power down; communications airwaves sputter to silence. The massive engines buried underneath the city platforms keep it hovering in place; the engines stand by; and the spire at the heart of the central platform retains communications capabilities, as well as its sensors and computers. That is all.

Stratum Apolune is, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

“And now we wait,” says Skywalker, with characteristic lack of respect for the moment.

Fireflies flit through the sky—the Republic’s Sawsharks making their rounds. The sight, the Count thinks to himself, is very nearly comforting.

The others mutter something about fetching some caf—Dooku realizes with mild surprise that no one has slept for at least twenty-four hours. Perhaps the Force has been giving him more help than he realized; he is exhausted, of course, but not from lack of sleep. Not yet.

Prudence would suggest he attempt to rest while he can, but he knows himself well enough to know he will not be able to. Instead, he remains on the balcony, breathing in the sharp sweet night air, listening to his cape rustle in the breeze. Lorian remains with him, the two of them looking out on the starfighters patrolling the skies.

Neither says a word.


	41. The Scholar

The sharp whistle of escaping steam tore Padmé from her sleep. It took her a moment to absorb her surroundings, and as she sat up she nearly smacked her forehead against a low-hanging shelf.  _ Right. My ship.  _

These days, she didn’t often sleep aboard her cabin at the forward end of the  _ Spice Dancer.  _ Spoiled as she was by the far more luxurious beds of the palace on Alderaan, or any one of Bail’s ships, or even the apartment on Coruscant she hardly used, she had not gotten a particularly deep sleep. She supposed that was why the slightest of noises was waking her. 

Grumbling as she rose to her feet, Padmé wedged her way through the cabin door before it had even slid halfway open and turned to stumble down the tight corridor found in the  _ Dancer’ _ s forward section. “Dammit, Liz,” she snapped as she shuffled into the galley. “What did you break this—”

She paused, her eyes now glued to a sight much different than the one she was expecting. Liz was nowhere to be found. Instead, a lavender-skinned Twi’lek dressed in a casual tunic, scarf draped around her neck and lekku swept behind her shoulders, stood over the galley’s cooking surface. The whistling noise was coming not from a burst pipe, but from a kettle atop the induction stove. The Twi’lek—Tyyria, whom Padmé had forgotten was even on board—picked up the kettle and twirled around to the counter behind her, nodding at Padmé as she poured the boiling water into a waiting caf press. 

“Oh.” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Tyyria said with a grin, returning the kettle to the stove. “Your droid said I could help myself if I needed anything.”

Padmé raised an eyebrow as she moved toward the galley’s dining table, sliding into the cushioned booth. “Really?” 

“She also said if I broke anything she’d throw me out the airlock.” 

“Well,” Padmé replied, a chuckle escaping her lips, “that sounds more like Liz. Where is she?” 

Tyyria jabbed a thumb toward the rear of the ship, where a ladder rose upward at the end of a corridor. “Went up there. Want me to go get her?” 

Padmé barely let Tyyria finish the question. “No.” Then, realizing she may have sounded a bit harsh, she softened her voice. “That’s all right, thanks.” 

Leaning against the bar-style counter opposite the cooking station, Tyyria glanced upward at the dining area’s ceiling, then from one bulkhead to another. “Nice ship you got here.” 

Padmé smiled, though it was accompanied by a scoff. “Yeah, well, most of this is retrofit work.” 

Indeed, the  _ Dancer  _ looked markedly different from the day it had broken free of Had Abbadon’s caves. Broken wall paneling had been replaced with surfaces of sleek white, the tripping hazard that was the metal grate floor was now a flawless matte black. The overhead lighting lacked its once signature flicker, and now illuminated the central space both evenly and constantly. Even the seat Padmé had settled into was a far nicer version of its former self, the cushion no longer torn and missing half its stuffing. 

“A thank-you gift from the RDF,” she continued, “for Had Abbadon.” 

“So this  _ is  _ the original  _ Spice Dancer, _ ” Tyyria muttered, running a hand along the synthetic stone countertop. “I wasn’t sure when I first boarded. I expected it to be . . .”

“Crappier?” Padmé asked, picking up where the Twi’lek had trailed off. 

Tyyria’s smile grew wide. “Hey, you said it.” Snatching up the caf press with one hand and a pair of mugs with the other, she moved across the room to sit at the dining table opposite Padmé. The aroma of caf filled the galley as Tyyria poured the brewed drink into both mugs—she slid one across the table to Padmé, who wrapped her hands around it with an appreciative nod.

“Thanks. It’s been a long time since anyone’s made me caf in the morning.” Raising the mug to her lips, she closed her eyes and took a sip—though her eyes immediately shot back open, and she sputtered slightly as the beverage slid down her throat. There was a taste she couldn’t quite place, one decidedly too potent for a cup of morning caf. 

“Gods, did you spike that?” 

Tyyria’s shoulders bobbed in a playful shrug, her lekku swaying slightly with the motion. “Maybe. Figured we could both use a drink after yesterday’s events, and we’ve got a while before we get to the Telos system. Found a little bottle of whiskey in the cabinet, poured some into the mugs before I brewed the caf. It’s the same stuff Senator Organa was drinking at the hotel, actually.” 

“What can I say, the man’s got good taste. And enough of that brand in storage that he won’t notice one bottle missing.” 

The Twi’lek arched an eyebrow. “You stole liquor from your boss?”

“Hey,” Padmé said with a shrug, crossing her arms and leaning back in the booth. “Once a thief, right?” 

Though the rim of the caf mug was in her mouth, Tyrria managed a skeptical glance at the woman across the table. As she tilted the mug back, Padmé returned the expression. 

“Come on. You never got in trouble as a kid?”

Her lekku swaying as she shook her head, Tyyria leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. “Not really.” 

“You from some cushy Core world?” 

“Malastare.” 

A rush of air escaped Padmé’s nose, the seat cushion squeaking a bit as she adjusted her posture.  _ Would not have guessed that in a million years.  _ “Not a lot of kids on Malastare,” she said. “Way I hear it, it’s mostly traders passing along the Hydian Way. Couple of energy corporations, some undeveloped jungle . . .”

Tyyria’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you getting at?” 

“When there’s nothing to do, kids find trouble. Trust me, I would know. What did you do for fun?” 

“Well, Dad was a medic for the podracing circuit—”

“Oh, come  _ on.”  _ Padmé threw her head back and barked out a laugh. “ _ Podracing?  _ You hung out at a racetrack and never got into trouble?” She recalled her own outing to a podrace—when she was a teenager, a traveling circuit had come to the wind plains of Oseon for a one-off event. The night had been rowdy, the stands full of drunks and the corridors full of brawling racegoers who were upset their bets hadn’t panned out. She’d managed to escape the evening with a black eye, a hangover, and a hundred credits more than she’d arrived with, vowing to only watch podraces on the holonet from that day forward. 

“I was a child. While my dad worked, I would find a corner of the track garage to hide in.” Tyyria paused and clasped her hands together, glancing down at the table. “I liked to work on the broken pods, see if I could get the engines running again.” 

“You’re a mechanic?” 

The Twi’lek shrugged. “It’s just a hobby. Got me paired up with a Jedi Technician when I joined the Order, though.” 

“When was that?” 

A momentary silence hung in the air—Tyyria was in the middle of a sip of her spiked caf. As she set the mug down, the slightest smile formed on her face; Padmé could see the warmth behind her eyes in that moment, as if she were thinking back to her first moments as a Jedi.

“Day I turned fifteen.” 

Padmé moved back in her seat, somewhat surprised at the answer. “Damn. What did you tell your parents?” 

At first, confusion played across Tyyria’s face—as if the question were nonsense. Then, something seemed to click. “Oh! They know. They’re Jedi too.” 

Now it was Padmé’s turn to flash a confused expression across the table, though Tyyria spoke before she could ask the question on her mind. “The Order forbids training with your own family,” the Jedi explained. “They don’t want anyone forming”—she paused, searching for the right word—”Force dynasties. So they stayed on Malastare while I left for the Temple on Coruscant to train with Master Qlik.” 

“The quartermaster?” Padmé asked, attempting to speak as she took a sip of her drink. 

“Wait, you know him?” 

“I’ve heard stories,” Padmé replied with a grin. “All good ones, don’t worry,” she hastily added when a look of concern flashed across Tyyria’s face. “But I’ve never met him. Didn’t get a chance when I visited the Jedi Temple.” As she mentioned the Temple, Padmé found her hand wandering to her neck of its own accord, brushing against the carved wooden necklace that hung there. 

Tyyria’s eyes flicked downward, her wistful gaze drifting toward the floor. “The Temple, huh? It’s been too long since I’ve been there myself. Been off on this assignment for a while now.” 

Tilting her head back, Padmé drained the remaining contents of her mug, then picked up the press in the center of the table. As she topped off the mug with more of the hot drink, she cocked her head to one side. “Wait. What was a Jedi Technician doing stationed in the Royal Library on Naboo?” 

“You don’t  _ have  _ to follow in your master’s footsteps, you know,” the Twi’lek replied—as she spoke, she reached up to adjust her headtails. “Not a Technician. I’m a Jedi Scholar.” 

“Oh!” Padmé said with a nod. “Like Qui-Gon.” 

This was met with a scoff and a shake of Tyyria’s head. “No. Not like Qui-Gon.” She held up a hand and leaned back in her chair, causing it to creak slightly. “Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s wonderful. We’ve been friends for years, but . . . she’s a bad Scholar. She never really stopped doing the work of a Jedi Knight.” 

“Right,” Padmé said, drawing out the word as she recalled her conversation with Qui-Gon at the Jedi Temple. “Moonlighting in the Coruscant Underworld.”

“Ah, she told you, did she? I guess she figured taking on the Scholar title would keep the heat off her, so to speak.”

“Has it worked?” 

Lavender lekku swayed as Tyyria shrugged. “She’s probably not fooling as many people as she thinks she is. It’s nothing new, her sneaking out to do things she shouldn’t be. You know, she never even should have gone to Had Abbadon. Of course, it’s hard to punish her for that, considering what happened.” She paused, her gaze drifting away for a moment before snapping back to meet Padmé’s eyes. “But yeah, ever since I’ve known her Qui-Gon Jinn has been a troublemaker.” 

This caught Padmé’s attention—she leaned forward, elbows on the table and her chin propped on her hands. “Really? Got any good stories?” For a moment she felt silly, like she was back in the dining hall of the markets on Oseon gossiping with her friends—but she dismissed that notion as quickly as it had arrived. It was worth looking slightly childish to hear whatever Tyyria had to say.

“I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy on a few of ‘em,” Tyyria said, shooting a smirk at Padmé. Rising to her feet and scooping up her empty mug and the caf press, the Twi’lek strode back to the cooking area of the ship’s galley. As she rinsed the dishes in the sink, she glanced back at Padmé over her shoulder. “I could tell you about a time she actually got caught.” 

“Oh, please do.” 

Shutting off the sink and drying her hands on her clothes, Tyyria spun to face Padmé and leaned against the counter. “So the Temple’s got this garage attached to the workshop and armory. Jedi park their personal vehicles there, but there’s also a motor pool: landspeeders, airspeeders, a few starships—meant for loaning out to Jedi if they need a ride. Thing is, students and younger Jedi aren’t supposed to take them unless they’re with a Master. So of course, Qui-Gon . . . borrowed one.” The final two words were accompanied with a flourish of Tyyria’s right hand. 

Padmé smirked.  _ Sounds like something Anakin would do _ . “What for?” 

“She had a date. This fancy restaurant in Little Corellia, not the sort of place you take the train to. She really liked this girl, wanted to pick her up in a nice airspeeder. Problem is, once Qui-Gon had dropped her date off at home and gotten back to the temple, the garage’s blast doors had been locked for the night.” 

“Locked out after curfew,” Padmé said with a wince. “Been there.” 

Tyyria nodded. “So she’s parked right outside the Temple, but she can’t just stay out there. It’s not like we do bedtime roll call or anything, but she’s maybe got a few hours before someone notices either the missing speeder or the missing Jedi Knight. By morning, she’d  _ definitely  _ get caught. So she calls me. I’m a Technician’s student, I’ve got garage access.”

“Plus nobody’s gonna bat an eye at you wandering the Temple grounds after dark,” Padmé interrupted. “You’re not a troublemaker.” 

Tyyria’s mouth hung open for a moment as if she were looking for her next words; then she offered a conceding shrug. “Yeah, fine, that may have been part of why she asked me. Anyway, I come unlock the blast doors for her. We leave the airspeeder powered down so we aren’t making any noise, and we push it back into the garage. And  _ just  _ as we’re getting it back into its parking spot, every single light in the room comes on. None other than Master Dooku is standing in the doorway.” 

“Oh gods,” Padmé said. 

“Yeah. But before he can get a word out, Master Qlik comes rushing out of the garage’s back room, waving his arms and thanking us for retrieving the speeder that  _ he  _ left parked outside.” A warm smile formed at the corners of Tyyria’s mouth; it was as if she were moments away from laughing at the memory. 

“He covered for you.”

“As best he could, anyway,” the Jedi replied, shoving away from the counter. She opened a cabinet above the sink and extracted two nutrient bars, holding one toward Padmé as if to say  _ want this?  _ Padmé shook her head and waved a dismissive hand—with a shrug, Tyyria tore the wrapper off the bar with her teeth. 

“It was still against the rules for a student and a brand-new Knight to be outside the Temple after lockup, so we did get in trouble. A couple weeks of workshop duty, supervised by Master Qlik—but assembling gadgets for the Jedi Knights is hardly punishment, if you ask me. We both enjoyed it, anyway.” The Twi’lek moved across the room and settled back into the seat across from Padmé, leaning back in the chair and spinning it idly from one side to the other. Taking a bite of her own nutrient bar, she tossed the second one—still cocooned in its wrapper—on the table in front of her. “He’s a good teacher. I hope I can follow in his footsteps someday.” 

Padmé’s eyes widened. “You  _ want  _ a student?” The idea seemed foreign to her—Obi-Wan had initially been reluctant to instruct Anakin, none of the other Jedi she’d met had ever expressed any interest in teaching, and she couldn’t imagine her own husband ever taking on a Jedi apprentice of his own. 

“Of course,” Tyyria replied with an eager nod. “What’s the point in studying all of this”—she spread her arms wide—” if you don’t pass on what you learn? But I can’t, at least not until I become a Jedi Master—and who knows how long that’ll take.” 

“What do you mean?”  
“Nobody really knows how to become a Jedi Master,” Tyyria answered, tearing another chunk off the nutrient bar. “There’s not one way to do it—no special trial to do or challenge to overcome. They don’t want Jedi trying something before they’re ready and getting themselves hurt or killed. It’s up to the Masters to decide when you’re ready to teach other Jedi.” 

An uncomfortable pause hung in the air—what would’ve been silence was cut through by the gentle hum of a ship traveling through hyperspace and the nearly imperceptible buzz of the overhead lighting. It was Tyyria’s voice that finally cut through the ambient noise. “But . . . I could teach you a few things.” 

“Hm?” Padmé muttered—her mind having wandered off somewhat, she only barely registered what the Jedi across from her had said.

“No rules against teaching you something. Couldn’t hurt to have an extra skill or two before we hit that Lancer station.” 

A half laugh escaped Padmé’s mouth. “We’ll be there by the end of the day. What could you possibly teach me by then?” She paused, continuing when a more obvious issue finally occurred to her. “Besides, what Jedi skills could I even learn? I’m not connected to the Force.” 

“Everything is connected to the Force, Padmé.” Tyyria’s reply came in that tone Padmé had come to recognize all too well—the serene smoothness of a useless Jedi platitude. Yet, as the words hung in the air, she found her fingers running across the wood grain of her necklace. 

“Right, well,” Padmé said, drawing out the words as she searched for a response. “You know what I mean. I’m no Jedi.” 

Tyyria rose to her feet, striding toward the open space in the middle of the Dancer’s central space. “Don’t need to be a Jedi to learn this. C’mon, get up.” 

With some hesitation, Padmé did as instructed, rising to her feet and moving to meet Tyyria in the middle of the room. When she came to a stop, the Twi’lek Jedi reached down to her belt, unclipped the metal cylinder hanging from it, and extended the lightsaber toward Padmé. 

“No way,” Padmé said, eyes wide and hands held high in surrender. She eyed the saber briefly—it was a far cry from the design of Anakin’s or Obi-Wan’s, lacking any reflective silver in its finish. It was shorter, clearly meant to be held in one hand rather than in both. The weathered black of the hilt appeared to possess a grip-like texture, and strips of cloth were tied around the cylinder at multiple points. It seemed, for lack of a better term, a bit beat up. 

“It’s from the Temple armory, I can assure you it’s safe to use,” Tyyria said, extending the saber hilt even further toward Padmé. 

“It looks . . . used,” she replied, eyeing the weapon dubiously. “Your armory stocks used lightsabers?” 

“That’s all the armory stocks, yes,” Tyyria said with a nod. “Knights build their own lightsabers, so our spare sabers are taken from Knights who change roles or leave the Order. They’re maintained and tested regularly, and disassembled for parts once they no longer work. As I said, it’s perfectly safe. Hell, you’re probably more qualified to use it than I am.”

Padmé lowered her hands and relaxed somewhat, shooting the Jedi an incredulous look. “Oh, I doubt that.” 

“You’ve trained with a vibrosword, right? Same principle. Have you ever dueled someone?”

“In a practice session, yes,” Padmé said, narrowing her eyes at the Jedi—Tyyria still held the lightsaber out, as if she expected Padmé to take it from her at any moment.

“Well, there you go. You are more qualified than I am. I’ve only ever trained alone. The Temple’s Battlemaster hosts practice duels, but I’ve never done anything more than spectate.” 

“Wait a minute,” Padmé said, “the Jedi practice with real lightsabers?” 

“Only way to learn,” Tyyria replied with a smirk. “And if you’re a little afraid, that’s a  _ good  _ thing. A healthy fear of the weapon will keep you from doing something stupid.” She gestured with the lightsaber again, waggling it around as if urging Padmé:  _ just take the damn thing _ . 

So she did. 

The textured metal of the saber’s hilt felt at once cool and hot in her palm—she hoped to the gods her hands wouldn’t start sweating as she wrapped her fingers around the cylinder. 

Tyyria took a sizeable step backwards, then nodded toward Padmé. “Go ahead, turn it on.” 

With a  _ crackle _ , the cyan blade sprung to life. The handle of the lightsaber seemed to vibrate in Padmé’s palm, as if the energy coursing from the blade were trying to move through her arm. She waggled the weapon in the air slightly; its  _ hum  _ sliced through the air. 

“Okay, now give it a good swing.” 

She drew the lightsaber to the left, then slashed it horizontally to the right—as she reached the peak of her swing, Padmé fought to stop the saber from moving any further.  _ Don’t want to leave a gash in the wall, I’d never hear the end of it.  _ Though she managed to bring the weapon to a stop, it was not without effort. “Wow,” she muttered. “It’s got more pull than I expected.” 

“Yeah, there’s a fair bit of inertia to a lightsaber swing,” Tyyria replied—the Twi’lek was now pacing back and forth across the width of the ship, still a safe distance away from Padmé. “You can use that to your advantage, though. Swing again, but this time don’t use your arm so much. Make it more of a wrist motion, and let the saber carry itself on the follow through.” 

Padmé did as instructed, sweeping the saber in a diagonal arc. The natural pull of the humming plasma blade kept it moving as she relaxed her arm. “Like that?”

“Exactly. It’s easy to burn yourself out by swinging too hard. You can let the saber do a lot of the work. Helps conserve your energy.” 

“I imagine it doesn’t take much effort to slice through something,” Padmé said. 

Tyyria smiled—it was the smile of a proud teacher. “No, no it doesn’t.” 

The  _ thwum  _ of a lightsaber echoed in the air as Padmé gave the weapon a few more flourishes.  _ Nothing too fancy,  _ she scolded herself as she resisted the temptation to spin the hilt in her hand. She concluded her improvised saber routine by bringing the weapon up into a guard position. 

“Very nice!” Tyyria said with an approving nod. “I want to try one more thing. Close your eyes, if you would.” 

Padmé lowered the weapon to her side; her thumb hovered over the activation switch. “Excuse me?” 

“Come on, just try it. Humor me.” 

Gritting her teeth, Padmé raised the saber back into a defensive stance. “Fine.” With a deep breath, she let her eyelids flutter closed. 

“Okay,” Tyyria said—her voice was moving, as if the Twi’lek was pacing about the room. “Is there a blaster around here?” 

Padmé’s eyes shot open. “What the hell is wrong with—” 

Tyyria—who had moved back to the galley area—was leaned against the kitchen counter chuckling to herself. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Thank the gods. I was pretty sure that blaster deflection thing required a bit more . . .” she trailed off, failing to find the right words. 

“Jedi-ness?” Tyyria finished for her. “It does demand more of a connection to the Force. Then again, you might be more connected than you think.” 

Padmé arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

“That necklace,” Tyyria said, pointing to the carved wooden piece hanging around Padmé’s neck. “You’ve touched it a couple times while we were talking. Once when the Jedi Temple came up, and another when I said everything is connected to the Force. You wore it when you visited the Temple, didn’t you?” 

Padmé opened her mouth, but no words came to her. 

“You felt it, right? When you got close to the tree?”

When Padmé spoke, she could only whisper. “Yeah.” 

“Feel it again,” Tyyria said, leaning harder into the counter and staring with wide eyes at Padmé. “Close your eyes. Reach out. Extend your senses beyond yourself.” 

Nodding slowly, Padmé brought the lightsaber blade up again and closed her eyes. She felt the air around the edge of her fingertips and tried to push her senses past that point— _ whatever the hell that means. _

Her attempt at reaching out was interrupted when she felt something smack her forehead. Padmé opened her eyes just in time to see a nutrient bar, still cocooned in its glimmering wrapper, bounce against the floor at her feet. 

“You were supposed to slice that in half,” Tyyria said, her voice a mix of amusement and mild disappointment. 

 “Sorry,” she said with a shrug, thumbing the lightsaber’s activation switch—the glowing blade disappeared back into the hilt, the cyan glow disappearing along with it. “Guess I don’t quite have what it takes. It’s like I said: I’m no Jedi.”

Padmé felt a tug on the saber hilt—as she relaxed her grip, the weapon flew from her hand and arced into the air, landing in Tyyria’s grasp. The Twi’lek clipped the saber to her belt. “That’s all right. Guess you’ll just have to keep dragging a Jedi with you everywhere you go.” 

“Hey!” Padmé said, crossing her arms in mock offense. “Watch your tone, or I’ll make sure to pick a different Jedi next time.” Then, relaxing her stance as she moved to approach Tyyria, she spoke again in a softer voice. “Seriously, though . . . I’m glad you’re here, Tyyria. I couldn’t do this without you.” 

“I’m sure you could, Padmé,” the Jedi replied, placing a lavender hand on the woman’s shoulder. “But thanks. I’m glad I’m here too.”

Padmé’s eyes flitted sideways, glancing at the hand resting on her shoulder. Her gaze began to wander—first to the wooden carving hanging from her neck, then to the lightsaber strapped to Tyyria’s belt.  _ If someone tried to tell me three years ago I’d one day use a Jedi’s laser sword—hell, that I’d be wearing a wooden carving from their Temple—I would’ve called them crazy.  _ Indeed, she was a far cry from the woman trapped in the caves of Had Abbadon,  one who doubted the very existence of the Jedi right up until the moment Obi-Wan Kenobi had pulled out his lightsaber and saved her life. 

_ Obi-Wan _ , she thought, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to project her thoughts across the stars,  _ we’re going to get you out of this one.  _

Even as she thought it, she wasn’t certain it was true. Yes, she’d helped pull him off a  _ Lancer  _ station once before, but this time was different. This time, Obi-Wan hadn’t gone there with the intent of getting captured. 

“Miss Padmé!” a cheery robotic voice called out, pulling her back to the present. Liz hung halfway down the cockpit access ladder, dangling from the rungs by one arm. “We’re dropping out of hyperspace in a few moments to realign for our next jump.” The droid’s eyes snapped to their signature crimson hue before she spoke again: “And I’m sure you don’t want me driving.” 

“No, Liz, I don’t,” Padmé chuckled, breaking away from Tyyria’s grasp and spinning on one heel toward the cockpit ladder. As Liz disappeared up it and Padmé planted a foot on the bottom rung, she found herself glancing back at her new Twi’lek companion. 

_ Well, Padmé, I guess you’re about to drag another Jedi into an impossible situation _ Gritting her teeth as she clambered up the ladder, she thought of Obi-Wan once more.  _ And gods dammit, you better drag  _ two  _ Jedi out with you.  _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: PODRACING** _

Podracing is a popular motorsport found in the Mid and Outer Rim regions of the galaxy. Using custom-built vehicles called podracers—single-occupant cockpits held aloft by repulsors and propelled by a set of turbine engines—pilots compete in multi-lap racing events. The engines of a podracer are immensely powerful, and during the course of a typical race the craft often reach speeds in excess of 700 kilometers per hour. 

Podraces are rarely found on densely populated Core worlds due to the amount of space required to construct a track. Races are instead held in uninhabited locales such as the snowfields of Ando Prime or the exhausted spice mines of Mon Gazza. The few tracks in confined urban environments are loved by racegoers and feared by pilots for their dangerous reputation. The course which winds through the resort city of Baroo Coast is infamous for a high crash rate, and the prize is often awarded to the last racer standing—it is not uncommon for all race participants to crash before completing three laps. 

Though the sport itself is not outlawed by the Republic, podracing is known for attracting illicit activity. Podracing events are popular gambling destinations, and petty thieves often take advantage of the large amount of physical currency circulating within a race venue. The sport is also a hotbed for organized crime—the racing leagues found in the Outer Rim are thought to be a popular method for money laundering, and “racing accidents” are a common reason cited for the death of undercover Hutt cartel informants.


	42. Bad Report

The  _ Sundered Heart _ and its crew had slipped quietly away from Theed the morning after the robbery of the vault had been discovered. They could have traveled back to Alderaan—the Senate recess was not over yet, and god knew it had been a long time since anyone aboard had seen home. But Bail had ordered Raymus Antilles to set course for Coruscant. He was in no mood for relaxation, not with what he now knew.

Sitting alone in his cabin, he studied himself in the small mirror mounted to the wall opposite his bed and sighed. When he’d taken the job of Chancellor; he’d still considered himself relatively young. Not a fresh-faced boy, of course, but a man whose best years, with any luck, were still ahead of him. Now his hair was graying in patches, his beard was shot through with silver, and his eyes were ringed by creases and furrows.  _ Technically, I’m still not old,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Won’t be for a long time. But that’s not much comfort. _

Palpatine, on the other hand, hadn’t aged a day since he’d been appointed. Barely even an hour.

_ Is that what this has been about all along?  _ he thought to himself, curling his lip in disgust at the petty thought.  _ You wanted to get dirt on the man not because of his politics but because of some schoolboy  _ jealousy _? _

With a long sigh, he turned away from the glass and spoke to his personal comm unit. “Call Mon Mothma.”

After several minutes of dialing, during which Bail did nothing but sit and stare at the wall, Mon’s holographic face buzzed into existence. “ _ Bail, _ ” she said, “ _ I don’t know if you realize what time it is on Coruscant— _ ”

“Your communications are secure, yes?” he asked.

For a moment, she replied with nothing but a look of dawning motherly horror. Then, her eyes hardening, she said, “ _ Yes. And the reason you’re asking is . . . ? _ ”

“I assume news has reached the Core by now that the SLS vault in Theed was broken into last night.”

She nodded, consternation but no surprise in her expression. “ _ I told myself it couldn’t have been you, but I knew anyway. Bail, do you have any idea— _ ”

“Mon, you can tell me how stupid and dangerous it was later. Right now, I need you to listen to me. You need to tell the Defense Committee you’ve received a tip that Serenno is in danger.”

And then, taking a deep breath, he laid out everything.

The disapproval of his antics gradually slipped from Mon’s face, replaced by disbelief and fear as the story moved from an obscure paper trail of payments to a functioning superweapon. By the time Bail had finished, the color had drained almost entirely from her cheeks. “I can’t just bring it before the military,” he finished. “But you’re on the Defense Committee. If you report that you received word from . . . an anonymous source, or something, you can at least get a few ships sent out to investigate. Maybe we can stop this thing before it happens.”

“ _ Bail, you know I can’t. _ ”

Yes, he realized, he did know. Yet still he insisted, “Mon, they could be on their way there  _ right now— _ ”

“ _ Bail! _ ” she snapped, her voice raspy with a harshness he’d never heard from her before. “ _ The fact that you’re asking me to do this instead of doing it yourself means you know good and well why I can’t. If I give no evidence for my claims, I will get nowhere with the Committee. If I reveal how I know, you will be tried for treason and I will be tried as an accessory. And if Palpatine really is tied to this, which you have  _ absolutely no way of proving _ , do you really think a pardon would be in our futures? _ ”

She shook her head, jaw clenched in quiet fury. “ _ I begged you to do this properly, Bail. To go through only legitimate channels. You’ve gotten us nothing except the threat of possible discovery hanging over your head for the rest of your life. _ ”

“We were getting  _ nothing _ going through legitimate channels,” he shot back, clenching a fist hard enough to dig his nails into his palm. “What do you propose I should have done instead? Stand back while Palpatine shoves through more emergency measures like taking over any border planet he has his eye on?”

A gleam appeared in his colleague’s eye—something like a weary triumph she took no pleasure in. “ _ You certainly didn’t seem to care about that sort of thing when  _ you _ were Chancellor, Bail, so spare me the sanctimonious moralizing. _ ”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _ For heaven’s sake, Bail, of  _ course _ the new annexation laws are troubling, but that’s all Palpatine is doing—codifying an established practice into the law. We’ve been taking over outer planets on flimsy pretexts for  _ centuries _ now. And as far as shoving through unilateral decisions goes, let’s not forget who started this war in the first place—without even  _ consulting _ the chain of command. Yes, I think Palpatine is dangerous, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re acting on politics first. _ ”

The holoprojector beeped gently in the background, the only other sound the stale  _ hiss _ of the ship pumping recycled air into the room. Mon looked down at an unseen floor somewhere exhaling softly; Bail, for his part, stared at her, wordless; he relaxed his hands, wincing as his nails removed themselves from his skin. Finally, when the silence had stretched on for a good ten seconds, he coughed. “Well, that sounded like something you’d been wanting to say for a while now.”

She looked back up, that reluctant triumph sinking back down beneath the weariness. “ _ It’s exhausting, Bail, always running interference for you, and it would be better if I at least thought we were serving a common cause. But you can never see beyond your own nose. You started the Clone Wars to rescue one friend. You may very well have landed yourself a treason charge just to spit in the face of the man who replaced you. Meanwhile, I have to do my best to juggle keeping Palpatine happy and combating his agenda. _ ”

He wanted so badly to be angry, to maintain some scrap of his dignity by shooting back an outraged rejoinder instead of acting pathetic. Instead, he simply said quietly, “The data we found is legitimate, Mon.”

“ _ And if your head of security and her Jedi friends can use it to save Serenno, good. But if you think it will actually bring down Palpatine, you’re blind, Bail. _ ” Putting a hand to her forehead, Mon pressed hard, until her skin went white. “ _ The public don’t care about a string of financial transactions between another politician and an agro-world that can  _ possibly _ be linked back to their chancellor. Especially when that chancellor is perceived as a wartime hero by the public. What they  _ might _ care about would be obvious abuses of power limiting their personal freedoms, like the new Peacekeeping Corps—which I have been  _ trying _ to raise a stink about in Congress, with no results because I don’t have enough allies. I could have used your help there, but you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Instead I had to try going to Sapir. You can imagine how Palpatine’s vice chair felt about coming out against one of his pet projects. _ ”

Bail swallowed, licked at his suddenly arid lips, and opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out. All he felt was an overpowering longing for a drink. Or to just go to sleep and not wake up for a solid year. “Mon, I—”

“ _ Bail, it’s late and I need to sleep. We’ll talk when you get back. _ ” Before the final syllable had fully formed, Mon’s hologram had winked out of existence.

_ Well, _ he thought, collapsing back onto the bed after several moments of processing what had just happened.  _ I may very well have lost my only friend in the Senate. And if I have, it’s my own damn fault. _

He could call Breha, he supposed, eyes wandering over to the holographic image of her that sat on his bedside table—pour out his frustrations on her. But Mon was right—thinking about  _ himself _ was the last thing he should be doing right now.

He had one friend in danger, another going to rescue him. He’d put his staff in jeopardy, he’d neglected Mon when she’d been trying to fight for things that actually mattered.  _ And I’ve been pissing away my usefulness for the last two years at least. _

_ It seems to me, Senator,  _ said a new voice in his head—one that, for some reason, sounded remarkably like Obi-Wan’s— _ that you have two options. You can remain here sulking for the rest of the trip, and then return to barely paying attention during Education Committee meetings. Or you can do something about this. _

Hauling himself back into a sitting position, he pressed a button on his wall comm unit. “Antilles, Korven, Kazan. When you get a moment, meet me in my quarters.”

 

* * *

 

A tattooed Zabrak skulked in the shadows. Maul’s personal chambers, darkened from the blue light of hyperspace outside the  _ Charybdis,  _ were a blank expanse. There was only the chair in the center, and the holoprojector in front of it. The former was empty, and the latter blank—the holoprojector’s standby image, a cluster of static, cast a faint glow throughout the room. 

Maul reached up with gloved hands and raised the hood of his cloak, at the same time spinning on a heel and pacing in front of the chamber’s central seat. Striding just past the chair, Maul paused and glanced at the floor—a small shard of black glinted slightly in the glow of the holoprojector. A remnant, he knew, of the stones that once lined the room. Picking up the shard between thumb and forefinger, he inspected it briefly before sliding it into a pocket within the folds of his cloak. 

As the standby image above the projector flickered slightly, Maul lowered himself into his chair. Arms crossed, he leaned back to stare up at the hovering static—then, thinking better of it, he shoved away from the chair and hit the floor, dropping to one knee as an image broke through the static and materialized before him. 

“Lord Sidious.” 

_ “Rise, my apprentice,”  _ the robed figure said, gesturing with an upward-facing palm.  _ “I’ve called for a report. I assume your strike against the Jedi enclave was a success?” _

As Maul rose to his feet, his amber eyes narrowed. The excuse he’d fed to his master before traveling to Wayland—attacking a nonexistent Jedi enclave—had completely slipped from his mind in the intervening days of travel, combat, and planning. He forced a blank expression onto his face, and hoped the holoprojector would mask any indicators of deceit. He had no choice but to continue the lie.  _ And the best lies,  _ he thought to himself,  _ are often adjacent to the truth.  _

“Not exactly,” he growled, doing his best to feign disappointment. He allowed his gaze to flick briefly toward the floor, and shifted his weight to his back foot. “We did find it, but it had been long abandoned. It was in total disrepair. There were no Jedi left to kill.” 

_ “A shame,”  _ Sidious replied—beneath the shadow of his master’s hood, Maul could barely make out a snarl.  _ “Still, there are other opportunities to strike back after the loss of our first  _ Lancer _. I’m pleased to see you’ve rejoined the fleet for our offensive against Serenno.”  _

Maul’s shoulders bobbed in the slightest of shrugs. “The admiral thought it prudent to be at the forefront of the strike.”

The projection wavered as the edges of the Sith lord’s hood fluttered.  _ “DId she now?”  _ Sidious glanced off to his side, away from Maul, before turning back to face the Zabrak.  _ “Speaking of Admiral Valis, you should know that Executor Mekosk has voiced some . . . concerns.”  _

Tilting his head back, Maul attempted to meet the eyes of the larger-than-life projection of Sidious. “‘Concerns?’” he echoed. 

_ “It seems as though recent board meetings have become a bit of a struggle. The two of you against the rest of the board. Decrying the use of the  _ Lancer,  _ pushing for unnecessarily aggressive ground attacks. Valis was supposed to moderate your extremities, Maul, not encourage them.”  _ Before Maul could open his mouth, Sidious continued.  _ “He is also concerned about the two of you running off with the supposed flagship of the fleet for petty strikes against the Jedi. You have your own ship—he says that’s what you should be using.”  _

“Mekosk authorized that strike,” Maul growled, clenching one hand into a fist. 

_ “That is not the point, Lord Maul,”  _ Sidious said, placing a harsh emphasis on the last two words.  _ “If Valis is undermining the effectiveness of the Confederacy, that does not bode well for the two of us. This war must proceed according to plan.”  _ The image of Sidious clasped its hands together.  _ “I realize this may be asking a lot of you, but think in the long term. Valis won’t be a part of our regime once this is over.”  _

“Neither will the board,” Maul said, cocking his head to one side in defiance. 

_ “Yes, well—at least the board can be controlled until then. I question whether that is still true for Valis.”  _

Maul glanced at the floor, and silence hung in the air for several seconds—there was only the hum of the  _ Charybdis  _ traveling through hyperspace, and the nearly imperceptible hiss of the holoprojector. Finally, the Zabrak looked back up at the face of Sidious. “What would you have me do?”

_ “Nothing yet,”  _ Sidious replied, crossing his arms—the projection of the flowing cloak flickered once again.  _ “She must believe all is well, otherwise we risk an incident during the attack on Serenno. But once we are done there . . .”  _ He trailed off, his head rising as he gazed upward with an apparent sense of resolve.  _ “Kill her. She knows far too much to simply be relieved of duty.”  _

“If you’re worried about her defecting to the Republic—”

_ “Oh, no. Her hatred for them is too great. But resurrecting her career as a pirate, attacking the CIS out of some misguided quest for revenge . . . that I could see. The crew of the ship may even follow her. And we cannot have that happening. After Serenno, commandeer the  _ Charybdis _ and execute Admiral Valis. Kill any crew—clone or otherwise—who get in your way.” _

Nodding, Maul dropped back down on one knee. “As you wish, Master.” 

Then, in the same manner it had appeared, the image of Darth Sidious flickered out of existence. 

 

* * *

 

Valis stood before the door to Maul’s chambers, hand hovering over the button that would allow her in. She’d been standing in the corridor of the Restricted Deck for several minutes—she’d arrived not long after Maul had disappeared from the bridge, growling about needing to take a secure call. 

She suspected who he was contacting—had it been anyone else, he’d have taken it in one of the comm suites on the command deck. So far, though, her desire to remain a secret from Maul’s master had outweighed her curiosity about the conversation happening within the meditation room. She once again dismissed the idea of barging in, lowering her hand from its place beside the door activator. 

The door slid aside anyway, and Valis was now face to face with a hooded Maul. The Zabrak’s head rose slowly until his glowing amber eyes met Valis’ own gaze. She was the first to speak; a single word left her mouth. 

“Him?” 

Maul seemed to know exactly what she was asking. “Him.” 

“What did he want?” 

“A report,” Maul growled, “on our ‘attack against the Jedi enclave.’” The Zabrak wrapped the lie in a tone Valis thought sarcastic—or at least as close to sarcastic as Maul was capable of. “I told him we found a derelict structure. Long abandoned, nothing left there.”

“Good,” Valis said with a nod, filing away the lie in case anyone asked her to verify it later. “Close to the truth, nice and easy.” As she trailed off, Maul moved forward, brushing past her with a slight shove and marching back down the cylindrical corridor of the Restricted Deck. 

Unfazed by his actions, Valis turned her back to the meditation chamber and shouted down the corridor: “Is he on to us?” 

This stopped Maul in his tracks—the Zabrak froze in place, glancing over his shoulder. “What?” 

“Your master. Does he suspect that we’re up to anything? What if he doesn’t buy the lie? Maybe he knows that you’re training me, or that we’re planning—”

“You think he would tell me if he did?” Maul interrupted, still glancing back and speaking over his shoulder—though the Zabrak lacked eyebrows, the ridge above his eye appeared to rise slightly. 

Valis bit her tongue and shook her head slowly. “Maul. Do you get the feeling that he suspects anything?” 

“No.”

“And if he does find out?” 

At this, Maul turned to fully face the admiral. “It would be in our best interest not to let that happen. I imagine he’d have us both killed.” 

With that he spun around and marched off, leaving Valis alone in the glow of the Restricted Deck. 

 

* * *

 

All three of Bail’s employees looked wary as they entered his room, understandably so. Ellis cleared her throat and spoke: “What’s up, Senator? Got word of us getting busted?” When Bail shook his head, her reptilian features loosened up just a bit, as though her scales had been pulled tight from tension.

“No, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, folding his hands and looking Clawdite, pilot, and security guard in the eyes each in turn. “When we get back to Coruscant, if any serious questions—any at all—are asked to any of you about what happened and you think our alibi won’t hold, you’re to point the finger at me. I forced you to do it, I threatened your jobs, something like that. You do not bring up Mace Windu, and Tyyria was never here.”

Kazan, taken aback, began, “Sir, my job is to protect you, not to throw you under the bus at the first sign of pressure—”

“I already violated your job descriptions when I asked you all to break the law for me, so stow it, Kazan.” After the other man had reluctantly nodded, Bail resumed, “And that violation of your job descriptions is why I asked you all up here.

“If I ever ask any of you to help me fulfill a personal vendetta through illegal means ever again, I want you to tell me no. If I insist, threaten to resign, or to turn me in. Because it’s not fair for me to ask you to exceed your duties when I’ve been neglecting mine. I’m a senator. It’s my job to do my best to thwart Palpatine’s agenda within the Senate, not through poorly conceived sting operations. And when we get back to Coruscant, that’s what I’m going to be doing.”

He’d let his voice fall into a speechifying cadence for those moments, building up its resonance to fill the room. Now, he dropped it down back to a normal conversational level. “I hope all of you forgive me for abusing your loyalty the way I have in the last week. I can only make it up to you by fighting against things like the Peacekeeping Corps or annexation with as much of my career as I have left.”

Raymus Antilles shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, sir. Anywhere you need us to follow you, we’re there.”

“Be that as it may.”

Exhaling, Bail felt a pressure he hadn’t known was there ease upward from his chest by a few degrees. “That’ll be all. Unless you all would like to grab some lunch in the galley?”

Ellis smiled—nervously, and baring her teeth in a sight far less reassuring to humans than it was to her own kind, but a smile nonetheless. “Sounds good to me.”

He’d spend the rest of the recess working, he decided, as the four of them strode out of his quarters and headed for whatever mediocre food was in the galley. If he was going to help Mon—assuming she’d accept his help at this stage—he would need to catch up on a pile of legislation.  _ If nothing else, it’ll make for more interesting reading than Palpatine’s financial records. _

_ Padmé, you’d better make it back in one piece. I’m not doing all that reading by myself. _


	43. First Wave

The first moment, when it came, was almost anticlimactic. No sudden lights appeared in the sky, no rumbling of torpedoes striking from an unknown source. Instead, Anakin, half asleep and slumped over on the war room’s central table, felt a buzzing in his ear.

Yanking himself back into alertness, he thumbed the commlink on. “Cody?”

“ _ The first wave seems to have arrived, sir. A couple of deathbox frigates; they’ve got shields up and they’re emptying out their hangar bays. _ ”

“Guys,” the Jedi barked, “this is it!” As quickly as his flesh hand, numb from being pinned to the table by his weight a few moments ago, could manage it, he transferred the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s call to the war room’s main comm unit. “Cody, beam us the view from up there.”

As the others gathered around the table, the holoprojector’s image shifted from a top-down view of Stratum Apolune to an orbital view. A large blue triangle, the  _ Coelacanth _ , hovered relatively close to Serenno’s atmosphere, pointing outward; farther out, angling themselves into a pincer, were two deathboxes. Tiny blips streaked from them—starfighters launching themselves into space.

“They seem to think we’re not worth much effort,” said Qui-Gon, sounding almost disappointed.

“There’ll be more where that came from,” Jesmyn replied, their white skin somehow a shade paler than usual. “This is just a probe.”

As all assembled watched the projection, the six Sawsharks in orbit hurtled in formation toward the two squadrons of Confederate fighters. “ _ Don’t engage directly, _ ” snapped Cody. “ _ We can’t afford for any of you idiots to be downed. Draw them into the other moons or the planetary rings. _ ”

“ _ Gotta get their attention first, Commander, _ ” said Beeko. “ _ We’ll only dust ‘em, don’t worry. _ ”

A few seconds later, the storm broke.

Three of the tiny red blips vanished in succession; then, true to their word, the Sawsharks broke off, splitting into pairs. Two pairs remained in open space, while the third headed for Aurora’s rings. Some of the Confederate pilots followed; others, however, were headed for the  _ Coelacanth _ , and a good dozen continued doggedly for Serenno.

Moments later, the  _ Coelacanth _ opened fire.

Even in a simulated projection, the sight of a Star Destroyer opening up with nearly every weapon system at once was impressive. Concussion missiles traced silver threads across the table, streaking for the deathboxes, which were too far out for turbolaser strikes. The turbolasers weren’t idle, though—the forward batteries unloaded in the general direction of the Confederate fighters headed for the moon. A direct hit would be too good to hope for, but that wasn’t Cody’s goal.

“Saturate the area with enough superheated plasma and eventually something’ll catch fire,” Anakin explained to the others. And indeed, even as he said this a sheet of green energy washed across the hologram, drowning the oncoming fighters. When the light of this initial salvo had cleared, the enemy’s numbers had been reduced to nine.

Lorian bore an expression of pleasant incredulity; Dooku merely furrowed his brow. “The rest will be past your ship before it can fire again. Can your pilots down here handle nine starfighters?”

“If they can’t, no one can.” Which wasn’t really an answer, Anakin knew, but it would have to do. “We’re gonna want to be ready for them to buzz the city, just in case.” Switching comm channels, he asked, “Battery one, battery two, everything ready to go down here?”

“ _ We’re watching the skies, _ ” came the reply. “ _ If anything breaks through, we’ll give ‘em a good volley. Can’t guarantee we’ll hit much with the light the way it is, though. And if they sight our muzzle flash it’ll be pretty easy for them to narrow in on— _ ”

“Okay, okay, we get the picture. Just make sure you keep moving, then. Karin?”

“ _ In position. We’re gonna douse our lights—use sensors only, stay behind cloud cover until they pop out. It’s risky, but hopefully it means we’ll be able to hit ‘em before they see us. _ ”

“Sounds good.” For several seconds after this, he hesitated, flexing the fingers of his mechanical hand with an itching desire to grab his lightsaber or the controls of a ship, to get out there himself and do something. Instead, he clenched his metal fist closed and turned to the palace droidsmith. “Jesmyn, can you . . . ?”

Stepping forward, the Arkanian punched at some buttons on the table. The  _ Coelacanth _ ’s feed shrank to cover only half the surface; their wireframe projection of Stratum Apolune and the surrounding area retook the other half. Two blue dots signifying their mobile AA turrets traced a slow orbit around the central platform’s spire; the Sawsharks were nowhere to be seen, buried in the clouds somewhere.

“They’ll approach from daylight,” Dooku said softly, watching the projection and waiting. “Flying at us from the night side would leave their visuals too impaired.”

Anakin was inclined to agree, but directing both AA platforms to stay on one side of the city wasn’t a call he fancied making. “If we leave one side completely exposed and they get in,” he muttered, “that’s the game.”

“I believe your pilots just told us, young Skywalker,” replied the count, a sliver of ice working its way into his voice, “that they can handle things on the night side.”

_ I get it, _ Anakin thought.  _ He’s terrified for his city, and I’m just a kid.  _ But he felt a smoldering irritation rising up within him at the remark, and rather than quenching it as he’d been taught, he let it burn. Anything that would distract him from the nerves pulsing under his skin was welcome. “With all due respect, Count,” he said out loud, careful to keep his voice civil, “Obi-Wan left me in charge. We may be under your jurisdiction, but those turrets and my pilots answer to me.”

He didn’t have to look at Qui-Gon to feel a spike of alarm from her; ignoring it, he kept his eyes locked on Dooku’s. The Count’s were bleary and tired, but they still had that raptor’s fierceness. Aloud, the old man simply said, “Duly noted,” but his stare conceded no victory.

“Skywalker,” Jesmyn barked. With an effort, he turned away—Dooku’s gaze seemed to have a pull of its own.

Nine red dots speckled one corner of the Stratum Apolune projection, drawing nearer at disheartening speed—all from the day side, as Dooku had predicted. “Battery one,” Anakin said, “enemy bogies inbound in your sky. Fire at will.”

“ _ Copy that, sir. _ ”

Breaking away from the hologram, Anakin strode toward the nearest window. He couldn’t see the AA turret from here, nor could he see much in the twilight sky beyond—it was a blue so deep it may as well have been black. Ten seconds passed, then fifteen, with no change.

Then the battery opened fire.

Needles of emerald propelled themselves across the sky, traveling miles in an instant. The turret fired in one-second bursts; to any observers below, it would have looked like a time-lapse of a fireworks display. Distant clouds lit up with green flame as the packets of plasma passed through them, then died back down to shadow.

_ Come on, _ Anakin thought,  _ they’re gonna close the distance soon . . . _

Miles away, a ball of orange flame burst in the night.

“One down.”

At his side, Qui-Gon settled down by the window as well, taking in the afterglow of burning shrapnel falling into the void. “I don’t like our odds of taking all of them down before they make it here.”

“That’s what Karin and the others are for,” he told her. “And honestly”—he shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure Dooku, Lorian, and Jesmyn were absorbed by the hologram display—“we can afford for a couple to get through if all they’re gonna do is strafe the city. All the civilians are in the lower levels, and the palace can afford to take some hits.”

“But Jesmyn said this is only the first wave. What happens when more arrive?”

Grinding his mechanical fingers together, he tried for the signature Skywalker grin and came up with what he felt was a passable imitation. “Gotta live in the moment, Qui-Gon.”

Another fireball blossomed, this one considerably closer than the previous—a near-miss, by the looks of things. Keying his earpiece, Anakin said, “Hey, Karin, really hoping the clouds you guys are hiding in are on the right side of the city.”

 

* * *

  
  


Karin Janzen gripped the edge of her piloting gloves and pulled them tighter onto her hands. The squadron leader’s eyes darted from left to right in rapid succession—buried as she was deep within a dense cloud, she could barely see the wingtips of her Z-95 Headhunter. Her gaze wandered to the cockpit sensor readout; to the untrained eye it was nothing but abstract pips and lines of light, but she knew what each represented. The hard angles of vector lines were the floating city blocks of Stratum Apolune. Eight points of light were the enemy fighters fast approaching the city. Four pips, clustered closely together, were the Sawsharks lying in wait among the clouds. 

“That’s an affirmative, Skywalker. Engaging momentarily. Sawshark Leader out.” 

Karin keyed the comm off and swore under her breath, leaning back into the worn cushions of her fighter’s seat. The padding, formed as it was by years of continuous use, felt almost like the comforting hug of a friend. Her ship  _ fit  _ her. Wistfully running a pointed finger along a section of secondary control dials, she whispered to the ship itself: “Ready for another one?” 

Before Karin could reactivate her comm microphone, a somewhat hollow voice came crackling to life in her ear—that of Skultin Zxarn, the squadron’s Givin pilot.  _ “We are outnumbered two to one. They will know this the moment we leave our cloud dover.”  _

“Doesn’t matter,” Karin replied. “We can’t let that many fighters reach the city. We’re engaging. Fire up your engines and break toward them on my mark.” Inhaling deeply through her nose, Karin wrapped both hands around her fighter’s flight stick and pressed her feet against the rudder pedals. “Now!” 

As she slammed her fighter forward and upward at the same time, the inertial compensator took a moment to react—Karin allowed the g-forces to pin her back into her seat, then felt her stomach drop as she reached the peak of her upward arc and sent her fighter sailing downward. 

From the streets of Stratum Apolune, an onlooker would have seen four darts rocket upward out of a dense cloud, the glow of each ship’s dual engine shining hot against the night sky. Karin only saw the moisture of the cloud condensing on her cockpit transparisteel, flittering away in droplets as she stabilized her flight path and made way for the oncoming enemies. 

Though the enemy fighters were nowhere close to within laser range, red flashes of light began illuminating the distance, pulsing in the staccato rhythm of someone feathering a flight stick’s trigger. “Okay, pilots,” she barked—the squadron loved to tease her about her “command voice,” which they claimed was half an octave lower and carried the raspiness of a lifelong smoker—“link your laser cannons and get ready to break off into pairs. Shiiva and I will go left, Skully and Ailish right. Got it?” 

A chorus of affirmative responses sounded in her ears—as the Sawsharks closed the distance between themselves and the eight enemy fighters, Karin felt her heart rate steadily climb. She forced herself to take steady breaths and measured out a mental countdown:  _ Three. Two. One.  _

_ “Oh crap!”  _

She slammed her flight stick hard to port—though not as hard as she would have liked, her attention somewhat split between flying and the voice she’d just heard on comms. It wasn’t any of the pilots that were with her now—it was Roland G’ex, who was supposed to be off patrolling for troop transports. 

“What is it, Roland?” she asked. Her voice felt disconnected from her brain in that moment—she had banked her fighter back to starboard in a reversal of her first maneuver in an effort to confuse an approaching enemy. It had worked; the clone pilot had fallen for the fakeout, and the vulture fighter was now squarely in her sights. Karin popped off a volley of laser blasts before rolling her Z-95 away from the enemy ship, slamming on the throttle to put some distance between her and the swarm of vulture fighters.

_ “They, uh . . .”  _ Roland trailed off, though the subtle hiss of an open comm line told Karin he hadn’t been disconnected. The Bith sounded out of breath—and thoroughly confused.  _ “I don’t know what happened. Those abandoned city buildings, they just sorta—” _

_ “Exploded,”  _ came another voice—Roland’s temporary wingman, the Barabel called Rin Hatchko, finishing the Bith’s sentence.  _ “The walls broke open from the inside. The CIS has launched troop transports. Must have had them hidden inside the buildings.”  _

_ “They’re freaking  _ fast _ ones too,”  _ Roland said.  _ “We’re making chase, but . . . I’m not sure we’re going to catch all of them. There’s five transports.”  _

“Noted,” Karin said, mindlessly snapping off another set of laser shots. “Keep after them, take any openings you can get and hit ‘em with concussion missiles.” She pulled her flight stick back, pitching the Z-95 upward and slightly away from the dogfighting. Her mind was racing—she could think of several people who would need to know this new information. Chief among them was Anakin, but she couldn’t call him. Not yet. “Five transports” meant nothing to the people in the city. She needed a head count—the exact number of enemy troops they’d be dealing with if Rin and Roland failed to take any transports down. Karin reached forward and keyed her comm to a private channel. 

“Hey, Sam—ah, dammit, I mean Chief Reyes. Sawshark Leader to Chief Reyes.” 

There was nothing but a static hiss in Karin’s ear for several moments before the comm crackled to life with the voice of the  _ Coelacanth’s  _ operations chief.  _ “I’m a little busy, Leader. What’s up?”  _

“The troop transports. The CIS troop transports. What’s their carrying capacity?” 

_ “The new ones?”  _

Karin hesitated for a moment, diverting her attention to direct extra power to her shields as a red light flashed within her cockpit. “Uh, I think so. Roland said they were really fast.” 

_ “Yeah, that’d be the new ones from Sluis Van Shipyards. It’s thirty clones if you count the ones flying it.”  _

A sense of dread filled Karin’s chest as she ran the numbers in her head. She couldn’t shake the feeling that 150 troops storming Stratum Apolune would be enough to reach the palace.  _ Capture the Count,  _ she thought,  _ and it’s over then and there _ . 

She forced this feeling down—it wouldn’t do to let Reyes know she was worried, and it certainly wouldn’t help squadron morale. Inhaling deeply, she moved a hand to her comm controls. 

“Thanks, Reyes. I’ll pass that on.” 

_ “Karin?”  _

The use of her name gave the squadron leader pause—beyond that, Reyes’ voice had changed too. The professional aura she usually projected during battle was gone. The chief’s voice had softened. 

“Yeah?” 

_ “Stay safe out there.”  _

Karin nodded as she slowly banked her fighter back toward the other Sawsharks. “You too, Sam,” she practically whispered into her comm. Then, with a click, she was back on the general channel. 

“Skywalker, we’ve got troop transports inbound. Suggest rotating artillery batteries to intercept them; we’ll handle the fighter traffic.” 

_ “Got it. How many troops are we dealing with?” _

Wincing, Karin braced herself for the ground team’s reaction. “Five transports, thirty troops each.” 

There was a palpable silence on the comm for an extended length of time before Anakin responded.  _ “Copy that, Sawshark Leader,”  _ came the eventual reply—Karin wasn’t sure whether the crack in the voice was a product of comm interference, or Skywalker’s nerves. 

She engaged with the swarming enemy fighters, snapping laser blasts off with rapid squeezes of the trigger as she weaved and bobbed her Z-95 among the clone-piloted vulture ships. “Orbital group,” Karin called out—she bit her tongue to avoid cursing over the channel as a laser volley lit up her shields—”I really hope things are going well for you up there.”  _ Because they sure aren’t for us down here. _

* * *

 

An involuntary yelp escaped Gaddi Treldar’s mouth as a shower of particulate asteroid scraped against her Headhunter’s nose. “We’ve been better!” she called out, yanking her flight stick hard to starboard to avoid another oncoming asteroid—this one large enough to do more than just scuff paint. 

_ “We’ve also been worse!”  _ a voice buzzed over the comm. 

“Yes, thank you for that insight, Beeko,” Gaddi grumbled. “Your optimism is helpful as always.” The Mon Calamari pilot leveled off her fighter, pointing its nose in a direction that would allow her to fly straight for a few moments without needing to dodge any oncoming debris, and dialed down the humidifier that had been mounted to the left of her pilot seat. 

A low rumble sounded over the comm channel, and Gaddi immediately had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Her wingman, an Ithorian, had just spoken in his native language—a language which, save for her, Sawshark Squadron’s members did not understand. 

As if on cue, Beeko piped up:  _ “What’d he say, Gaddi?”  _

_ “It does not translate well to Basic,”  _ Nakuda—the Ithorian—answered before Gaddi had a chance to speak. 

“Your particular brand of Ithorian vulgarity translates just fine, Nakuda,” Gaddi replied, pressing her lips together in a Mon Calamari equivalent of gritted teeth. “I’d just rather not repeat it.” Diverting her attention back to her flying, she gripped her control stick with a webbed hand and shoved it forward. 

Gaddi’s fighter sailed downward, deeper into the planetary ring of the gas giant Aurora. As she’d approached the ring from a distance, it had glinted in the reflected light of the system’s sun—reminding her of the oceanstones found on Mon Cala. The up-close reality of the rings was much less appealing. Thousands upon thousands of drab brown space rocks, laced with just enough metal to pierce a starfighter’s shield, were scattered in a thin disc around the circumference of the massive planet. 

Gaddi, along with Nakuda, had dipped into the planetary ring to shake their pursuers—a cluster of Confederate tri-fighters, far too nimble to outmaneuver in open space. As the rest of the flight group guarded the  _ Coelacanth  _ and harassed the enemy frigates, Gaddi found herself bobbing and weaving around asteroids in a panicked attempt to dodge the space debris—and a vain hope that the fighters on her tail might fail to do so. 

Another horrible scraping sound vibrating through the structure of her Headhunter signaled more microparticles slicing into her starboard wing—Gaddi grimaced, and snapped her ship in the opposite direction of the cloud of sharp rocks. 

Behind her, Nakuda must have done the same—the whine of his fighter’s thrusters on the auditory simulator was accompanied by another rumble of Ithorese. 

_ “Dammit, Nakuda. Basic, please,”  _  Beeko’s voice came buzzing over the comm.  _ “If you’re calling out enemy ships and stuff, anyway.” _

“He’s not,” Gaddi said, rolling her eyes. “He’s swearing like a Nar Shaddaa spaceport worker.” 

_ “I’m surprised you know what any of this stuff means,”  _  Nakuda said, his rumbling voice practically causing Gaddi’s headset to vibrate.  _ “Where did you learn Ithorese, again?”  _

_ “Cut the chatter, you three!”  _

The commanding tones of Sawshark Four—Garven Dreis—cut through the squadron’s banter.  _ “Gaddi, Nakuda, pick up your visual scanning. Tri-fighters on your tail; they aren’t crashing into the debris in the ring. From out here, I count six ships closing in on you.”  _

“Copy, Four,” Gaddi said, gripping her control yoke tighter and feathering her Headhunter’s throttle. Her eyes darted across the asteroid cluster that stretched before her; she mentally plotted her route through the maze of space rocks. 

Flicking a toggle on her comm unit, she spoke once again into the mic—this time on a wingmate-only channel. “Nakuda, form up on me and double up your rear deflectors. We might get shot from behind, and forward shields are useless against this ring debris.” 

_ Wait,  _ a voice piped up in Gaddi’s head.  _ That’s it.  _

Wordlessly, she poked at her ship’s targeting display. Three of the six glowing triangles converging on her location became bracketed in the flashing hexagon of a targeting lock. Gaddi stared at the console for a moment, expecting the enemy ships to break the targeting—but after several seconds, the computer still held firm. 

_ “Gaddi, I think your targeting computer’s bugging out,”  _ Nakuda’s voice rumbled in her ear. 

“Not a bug, my friend. A feature.” 

_ “Those ships are behind you. Why would you want to paint a targeting lock on a ship you can’t hit?”  _

“I have an idea.” The words left her mouth with a smooth confidence, one that seemed to inspire the same feeling in her fellow pilot. 

_ “I’m listening.”  _

The edges of Gaddi’s mouth curled upward in satisfaction. “Do the same thing I did. Paint the other three ships with a targeting lock. Then set your concussion missiles for proximity detonation.” 

A warbling baritone note—that of an Ithorian laugh—buzzed across the comm channel.  _ “Proximity detonation is garbage, Gaddi. The concussion warheads aren’t calibrated right. They always blow up too soon. We won’t hit anything.”  _

“That won’t matter.”  Her fighter sailed past clusters of space rock—as she steered the Headhunter, Gaddi used her free hand to toggle the weapon systems over to missiles, then switch the missiles to detonate when they got close to a target rather than on impact with one. 

_ “I’m ready, Gaddi. What’s next?”  _

“Form up next to me.” The Mon Calamari slowed her fighter to a near stop, allowing Nakuda to pull his own Z-95 along her starboard wingtip. She glanced across the wings at the Ithorian pilot—as he made eye contact, Gaddi nodded and gestured forward, toward the noses of their two fighters.

“See those two big asteroids?” she asked, pointing a webbed finger at two shuttle-sized rocks floating side by side several meters in front of the Headhunters. “Stick ‘em with your missiles.” 

Nakuda’s voice buzzed in her ear, carrying a profanity-laced statement of confusion she had no desire to translate. Gaddi rolled her eyes and ignored her wingman, continuing with her instructions. “Once the missiles are embedded in the asteroids, slam the throttle and fly between them, then break to starboard. Up and out of the planetary ring.”

Another of Nakuda’s laughs—this one much slower and more deliberate—came across the comm.  _ “Solid copy, Gaddi. I think I see what you’re going for.”  _

“Fantastic. On my mark, then.” She glanced over at Nakuda, then back at the nose of her fighter. Inhaling the humid air of her cockpit, Gaddi allowed her eyes to flutter closed. A proximity alert pinged on her targeting computer—the six enemy tri-fighters were closing in on them. 

“Three. Two. One. Now!” 

Four concussion missiles—two from each Headhunter—streaked toward the asteroids, leaving glowing blue trails behind them. As each landed, accompanied by a  _ plunk  _ on the auditory simulator, Gaddi slammed her fighter’s throttle forward. 

As the Mon Calamari was pressed back into her seat, she briefly diverted her attention to her sensors. Nakuda, it seemed, was right on her tail, darting between the two missile-laced asteroids and pulling his fighter upward just as Gaddi did. 

Two Z-95s shot free of Aurora’s planetary ring—the instant it was safe to do so, Gaddi spun her fighter into a roll so her cockpit bubble faced the cluster of asteroids. 

Just as she had hoped they would, the six enemy tri-fighters tried to replicate Gaddi’s maneuver. It did not end well for them. As they crossed the proximity zone meant to trip the concussion warheads, two massive asteroids exploded. 

It was as if someone had set off a frag grenade the size of a house. Shards of rock and metal exploded outward in all directions, slicing through shield and fighter hull alike. Where there were once six Confederate tri-fighters, there was now nothing but another cloud of debris amongst the glinting rings of Aurora. 

The inertia of her fighter inverted as she slowed the Headhunter—between the sight of the explosion and the brief feeling of floating in zero gravity, Gaddi couldn’t contain her laughter. “Well, that sure got ‘em!”

_ “Nicely done, Six,”  _ came the voice of Garven Dreis.  _ “You and Seven better regroup with us, we’ve got some enemy frigates to deal—” _

There was a  _ thunk _ . First, just one. Then another. Then a rapid volley, all sounding through the auditory simulator like a flurry of weighty punches. Gaddi knew the sound well—a ship dropping out of hyperspace. The lower the noise, the larger the ship. And these ships were big. 

Capital ships, clearly belonging to the CIS, loomed in formation in the space beyond. Eight in number, all large, all imposing and dangerous in their own way—whether the harsh and angular threat of the massive deathbox dreadnoughts or the unsettlingly artistic curves of the unique ship among the bunch. 

A rumbling phrase of Ithorese sounded across the squadron-wide channel, followed closely by Beeko’s predictable echo: “ _ Gaddi, what’d he say?”  _

Gaddi Treldar reached forward—webbed hand trembling—to toggle her comms so the whole squadron could hear. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and muttered into the comm: “Oh shit.” 


	44. Sound Retreat

It would not have been possible for anything to put Temeura Cody in a good mood today—short of General Kenobi showing up with an entire division of the fleet, maybe—but the fact that deathboxes seemed to blow up as easily as ever was elevating his temper from  _ foul _ to  _ sour _ .

The boxy frigates had belatedly begun carrying point-defense systems after the first year of the war, but they were equipped to deal with the projectiles fired from other frigates, not a fully armed warship like the  _ Coelacanth. _ Typhoon’s flagship hadn’t stopped emptying her concussion missile tubes for the last five minutes, and there were enough left in the reserves to keep it up for—

Well, not as long as Cody would have liked.

Nevertheless, it was intensely gratifying to watch miniature fireballs puffing out in droves along the hulls of the two things. Their own missile strikes were being doggedly taken down by the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s own point defense—the Star Destroyer’s shields read as 98%.

With a sudden groan from the bridge’s auditory simulators, the deathbox on their port side began listing, its flight path beginning a long, slow arc inward toward its partner. From Cody’s left, Sam Reyes allowed herself a small chuckle. “Disabled their navigation controls, looks like.”

Cody ran a hand along his stubbled chin, eyelids drawing close together as he watched the rudderless deathbox list further and further. “Halt missile barrage,” he said.

The regular  _ thwump _ that the auditory simulators had been emitting every few seconds died down; the matte grey deck ceased vibrating. “Reyes,” Cody continued. “Project the disabled frigate’s course and display it on the viewscreen.”

His lieutenant spent several seconds furiously punching at her console, before a wireframe projection overlaid against the two  _ real _ frigates painted their viewport. The one they’d disabled continued to drift to port, getting closer and closer to its friend.

Reyes grinned. “Whoops.”

In the projection, two red wireframe deathboxes were suddenly one pixelated explosion.

The animation gave way to reality, in which the ship they’d damaged was still several hundred klicks from its partner but starting to accelerate its wayward course, still harried by Sawshark Z-95s. “They’ve got three choices,” said Reyes, nodding at the other frigate. “Stay there and get wasted. Back off and get outside firing distance.”

“Or close the gap and get within range of our turbolasers,” Cody finished. “Commander Skywalker, you seeing this?”

There were several seconds of silence; frowning, Cody was about to ask whether something had happened to their comms when an only vaugely familiar voice spoke up. “ _ Commander Skywalker is a bit busy at the moment, Commander Cody—we’ve got some entirely too nosy neighbors headed our way down here. What’s up? _ ”

_ Qui-Gon Jinn, _ Reyes mouthed at him when he shot her a questioning look.

Well, Cody thought, at least another Jedi had taken up the slack. He didn’t fancy trying to strategize with Dooku or his people. “We’ve disabled one of the two frigates up here,” he said after a moment of throat-clearing, “and the other one will be down shortly one way or another. If you need some assistance down there, we can send some additional—”

“Sir!” Reyes shouted. “Sensors detect numerous objects emerging from hyperspace at the edge of the system.”

As a distant  _ crack _ reverberated through the bridge, like a slug being propelled from a rifle, Cody felt his stomach twist in on itself.

His lieutenant immediately replaced the bridge’s view of the two deathboxes with her tactical display. At the center was Serenno; floating just outside its atmosphere was the  _ Coelacanth _ , with the two deathboxes hovering at the edge of firing distance.

At the very edge of the map, eight new shapes had emerged.

“Looks like a bunch of deathboxes,” Reyes rattled off, her voice tight in what sounded like an effort to stave off nerves. “One of ‘em appears to be modified but I can’t tell how much from this far out. And the eighth one, the big one, is a  _ Leviathan _ .”

Cody swore softly under his breath. Only two or three  _ Leviathan _ -class assault cruisers were in operation—they were equivalent to a Star Destroyer or better, armed to the teeth and bristling with starfighters. “If that second frigate gets closer, blow it to hell,” he barked at his lieutenant. “Jinn, are you still down there?”

“ _ Sorry, Cody, _ ” said a male voice—Skywalker, back from whatever he’d been handling down below. “ _ We’ve got some trouble down here— _ ”

“And we’ve got eight capital ships up here. One of them is a  _ Leviathan. _ ”

When Skywalker replied, the uncharacteristic shakiness in his voice did little to reassure anyone on the bridge. “ _ Is it split down the middle of the hull? _ ”

Reyes nodded to Cody.

_ Well,  _ he thought.  _ That’s it, then. _

Aloud, he said, “Yes. It’s the  _ Charybdis _ .”

The  _ Charybdis.  _ Architect of Confederate victory across dozens of worlds. Flagship of Sephone Valis, the former mercenary they’d dug up and made their admiral. Bearer of four fighter squadrons, home to a gravity well generator capable of stopping any hyperspace travel.

And frequent host to Warlord Maul.

The hiss of comm static was all that came from down on Serenno. While Cody waited for a response, the deck began gently shaking under his feet; he squinted through the tactical projection and saw that, true to his order, the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s turbolasers had started chewing away chunks of the second deathbox’s hull as it moved closer to avoid its counterpart.  _ At least we’re taking some of the bastards down with us. _

Finally, Skywalker asked: “ _ Honest opinion, Cody. How long will you last up there? _ ”

Temeura Cody was the leader of Typhoon Division. He had been a soldier his entire adult life, and he’d witnessed his share of miracles—enough that he’d been conditioned to believe there would always be another way out, some stroke of luck or Jedi trick that would save the day.

Answering Skywalker, he felt that part of him fade away.

“We could take a few frigates. Maybe. If they were alone. Or we could fight the  _ Charybdis _ to a draw, possibly. If it were alone. As it is, we’d be blown to atoms within five minutes.”

A faint rumbling issued through the comm—whatever Skywalker was dealing with down there, it wasn’t dead yet. And up here, Cody saw, the distant capital ships were beginning to inch across the map.

The walls were closing.

 

* * *

 

The palace spire vibrated from a distant shockwave—at least one of the enemy starfighters had slipped through the Sawsharks and was taking potshots, though the lasers weren’t doing much more than setting small surface fires. Anakin was pacing a constant trail from the window back to the war room’s tactical display to see if the troop transports Roland and Rin were chasing had broken through the storm yet; Dooku, Lorian, and Jesmyn were solemnly regarding the holographic Stratum Apolune, with the droidmaster occasionally swiping at a platform as though widening the gap between it and its mates by a few feet would accomplish something. Qui-Gon simply looked out at the night sky, leaning heavily on her cane.

_ If Obi-Wan were here, he’d . . . I don’t know what he’d do, that’s the problem.  _ Anakin clenched his jaw until his teeth ground together, knowing that the  _ Coelacanth _ was waiting for a command from the ground before making a move. He had to say something. He had to . . .

Had to what?  _ We have two options, _ he thought, watching the red daggers that were the Confederate capital ships inch laboriously across the map.  _ Send in the  _ Coelacanth _ , let ‘em delay the  _ Charybdis _ for as long as possible, and then watch them blow up. Or send them off and let the city get taken over inside of an hour. _

In the holoprojection, the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s blue ghost hovered in place, suddenly looking impossibly small.

“ _ Skywalker? _ ” Cody said. In characteristic fashion, he sounded not scared but impatient. “ _ We need an order up here. _ ”

“Ahhhh . . . yeah, hang on.” Reaching down, he flipped the comm to mute, then looked up and surveyed the others. Jesmyn was gripping the edge of the table forcefully and gnawing at their lower lip. Lorian’s face was ashen, and his left hand was clutching Dooku’s. The Count’s eyes were . . . nothing, their hawk’s sharpness replaced by black holes of resignation.

“This only has one ending, young Skywalker, one way or the other,” Dooku said softly, his voice flat with finality—he knew, Anakin could tell, that he was only confirming aloud what the young Jedi already felt. “I regret that you were forced into it.”

Anakin nodded slowly, feeling as though his head suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. Turning, he saw that Qui-Gon was still calmly staring out the window, watching the distant speckling of light across the sky as the Sawsharks traded laserfire with enemy fighters. She looked almost tranquil, as though she were watching a fireworks display rather than a battle.

_ She’s always like that,  _ he reflected. She was a better Jedi than even Obi-Wan in that regard, certainly better than him; she knew good and well that her own doom was probably impending, and yet all she did was watch the sky, looking almost appreciative of the scenery every time a new explosion blossomed.

In three strides he’d crossed the room and was standing next to her. “Qui-Gon.”

“Yes?” she asked mildly, still staring out the window.

“Listen. The only reason I’m in charge right now is because Obi-Wan gave me this.” Reaching into his pocket with his flesh hand, he extracted the code cylinder. Its cool metal surface weighed almost nothing in his palm; if he were to drop it, he probably wouldn’t even notice. “And I don’t trust myself to do this right. You’re good at this . . . Jedi calm thing, and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. So I’m asking you if you want to take it.”

To his surprise, an abrupt laugh burst from Qui-Gon as she turned to face him. Rather than her usual soft chuckle, it was loud, startled, as if she hadn’t known it was coming. “Anakin, I’m absolutely terrified. If I’m better at hiding it, it’s because I’m too vain to want to let it show.”

His stomach felt as though it were deflating, folding in on itself. Reaching outward quickly, he probed beneath the surface of emotions and discovered that it was true. Qui-Gon Jinn, on the inside, was near rigid with fear.

“Okay, even then,” he persisted, “you’re the senior Jedi, and Obi-Wan—”

“Picked you, Anakin,” she replied.

He felt one of her hands reach down to grip his flesh one—it was a sudden soft warmth, one that sought to impart strength as it squeezed down on his fingers. “Obi-Wan picked you. As his apprentice, as his friend, and as his replacement, until the old bastard shows up with the cavalry or something.” And while her eyes betrayed that she didn’t believe that last part, she kept on as though she did. “And now you have to make a choice yourself.” A trace of her usual smirk surfaced. “Just do what he’d tell you to do if you were here. Trust the Force.”

She turned back to watch the dogfight unfold across the night sky. For a few seconds, he joined her. A Z-95—was it Karin’s? impossible to tell with this light—spat a flurry of crimson laserfire at an oncoming trifighter, at just the right time—rather than plowing into a building, the Confederate ship plummeted downward, just missed scraping a platform, and continued into the abyss. Another Sawshark took a minor hit to the port engine, kicked into a dive to avoid the next volley, then hauled its stick upward, its opponent too intent on their original flightpath to notice they were flying straight into a cable.

_ Watching from down here, you’d almost think our odds were even.  _ But the Force was telling him otherwise.

They were going to lose this battle. What he was faced with was how big the loss was going to be.

He could keep the  _ Coelacanth _ here. Buy them a few more minutes, or maybe even an hour. Or he could save what lives he was capable of saving.

Because he was a Jedi—because he was Anakin Skywalker—he knew what he had to do.

Exhaling slowly, he strode back over to the table and flipped the comm back on. “Cody? I want you to get the hell out of here.”

“ _ Begging your pardon, sir, _ ” said Cody in a voice that made it clear he was begging nothing of the kind, “ _ I question whether— _ ”

“Cody, shut up.”  _ That’s one nice thing about being doomed—I won’t have to pay for that one later. _ “We were keeping you around because you were the moon’s one shot at surviving. That’s gone out the window. As it is, the only way for us to get help is to send something out of the system.”

“ _ Skywalker, _ ” Cody shot back, “ _ the  _ Charybdis _ has a gravity well generator. The way back to the Republic is out of the question— _ ”

“So aim for the far side of the system, jump out that way.”

Reyes spoke up. “ _ Sir, that leads us right into Confederate territory. _ ”

“Take the long way around. Unplotted jumps if you have to. At least it’s a way out.” He looked up at Dooku, holding the other man’s gaze as he continued to address the  _ Coelacanth. _ “If we sent any smaller ships that way, they’d get blown out of the sky. You’re big enough that if you can get out of the Aurora system and get in range of another communications node, you can get a message out to Republic forces even if you have to deal with the CIS at the same time.”

“ _ We’re not just leaving you defenseless. _ ”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Cody. Do it. Now.” And with that, he cut the line.

Lorian’s expression had an almost willful hope in it. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“We’re gonna fight tooth and nail to keep them from getting in here, but that honestly doesn’t mean all that much,” Anakin replied, not looking at the Viscount—he was still staring into the Count’s eyes, willing the despondency to be replaced by some of the former hawk’s sharpness. “We’ll go down swinging, I promise you that. And at least this way the Republic might show up to give the clones a nasty surprise while they’re celebrating their victory.”

“Skywalker, look,” barked Jesmyn, pointing at the holoprojector’s depiction of space. “They’re moving.”

Indeed, the  _ Coelacanth _ was at full burn, swinging its nose around and headed rapidly in the direction of the moon’s far side. It was not, however, the only thing that was moving.

A stream of blue particles had begun to pour from the warship, all of them headed straight for the moon. None of them presented a target for the encroaching Confederate fleet—not only were the capital ships too far out, the  _ Coelacanth _ had rotated so that it stood between them and the cyan specks.

“You were holding all those starfighters  _ back _ ?” Jesmyn asked, their voice full of furious incredulity, brows knitting together in stunned consternation as they watched the projection.

“Those can’t be starfighters,” Anakin said, and once more flipped open the channel to the  _ Coelacanth _ . “Cody, what the—”

“ _ I told you I bloody well wasn’t leaving you defenseless, Skywalker, now shut up, _ ” Temeura Cody growled across the line. “ _ You’re getting everything we had left—a few Y-wings, shuttlecraft, LAAT gunships. This isn’t a space battle anymore, it’s an atmospheric engagement. If you can keep their transports off you and if they’re charitable enough not to start an orbital bombardment, it’s a shot. _ ”

Feeling his face stretch into a grin that was equal parts disbelief and gratitude, Anakin said, “Are rated pilots flying those things?”

“ _ Largely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re getting the hell out of here. _ ”

The Confederate fleet had belatedly realized what was happening, and their modified deathbox was opening fire, but Anakin knew there was no way it would make a difference—the turbolasers were too far out, and the  _ Charybdis _ ’ gravity well was blocking the wrong side of the system. The projection of the Star Destroyer began to flicker as the wall between realspace and hyperspace thinned.

As the last of the straggling friendlies reached safe distance, the  _ Coelacanth _ left the system.

The Sawsharks’ line buzzed. When Anakin accepted the hail, Roland spoke up. “ _ Ahh, sir, I hate to tell you this, but we didn’t manage to take out two of those transports. They’re gonna be landing before we can catch ‘em. _ ”

“Okay, Roland. Abandon your posts, get the hell back here. Karin is gonna need the help.”

“ _ And why’s that? _ ” Sawshark Leader herself asked. “ _ I think we’ve mostly got these fighters mopped— _ ”

Before she could finish the sentence, Anakin had transferred over to the general channel. “Attention all Republic forces,” he said, doing his best to make his voice project in the way Obi-Wan had mastered.

“We have eight Confederate capital ships inbound, including”—he winced, but there was no way to make this sound good—“Admiral Sephone Valis’s flagship. The  _ Coelacanth _ has left the system in an attempt to secure reinforcements. We don’t know how long that’s gonna take—they’re heading into Confederate territory.

“All Sawsharks, converge on Stratum Apolune—they’re gonna be hitting us and hitting us hard. AA turrets, keep an eye out for inbound troop transports. We’ve got reinforcements coming in—LAATs, bombers, whatever Cody could spare. Shuttles and gunships, get to the city’s landing pads and lose your cargo as soon as you can—if we end up having clones hit the streets, I want us to be well-supplied. Bombers, hang back from any dogfighting for now—if the capital ships decide to join the party, we’re gonna need you to get their noses bloody.” Pausing to take a breath, he looked around the table to see if anyone else had a fitting sign-off. When none came, he simply said, “And don’t die. Any of you.”

He shot Qui-Gon a look, as if to say,  _ Well? _

Through the Force, he felt her reply.  _ You’re definitely not Obi-Wan. But not dying is a sentiment I think all of us can agree on. _

A proximity alert began squawking from the war room table before he could shoot something back. “That’ll be those transports,” Anakin muttered to himself, and turned back to the comm. “Okay, turrets, you guys had better be in position.”

 

* * *

 

The troop transports, when they break the clouds, aren’t the boxy, bargelike contraptions the Republic has grown used to shooting at. The new models are fast, thin, and narrow, flying dagger blades, and their silhouettes present such a narrow target that the only AA platform within firing range doesn’t have a hope. Its ammunition washes across the sky, a sheet of crimson plasma that would easily intercept something bigger or slower, but these transports simply dip under it and continue on their way. At the same time, the two Z-95 Headhunters pursuing them have to frantically pull up to avoid being hit by their own side’s fire, which comes so close it sizzles against the starfighters’ shields.

Before the turret can launch another volley, the transports have closed the distance.

Within each, thirty soldiers stand waiting, all staring straight ahead at the doors that will, in a few moments, open and expel them into Stratum Apolune. In front are standard human units, free hands locked around blaster rifles, belts laden with explosives. Behind them, Trandoshan units with flamethrowers and shotguns snarl, licking at their snouts, eyes squinted half-closed against the rush of illumination that will come when they’re released into the fray.

All hope is not lost, however. For these sixty troops aren’t the only ones beginning their final approach.

From on high, a sudden flock of lights washes over the city.

In the lead are four LAAT gunships, their floodlights carving broad swathes of white through the night sky..The  _ Coelacanth _ ’s complement is intended for transporting cargo, not landing troops or taking part in dogfights—no soliders cling to the overhead racks, no gunners occupy the laser turrets on each side. The pilots, however, still have two rocket launchers at their disposal. The two Confederate transports are too close to the city for a shot—the gunships’ sensors aren’t sophisticated enough to detect which structures on the platforms contain inhabitants, and one misplaced rocket could spell disaster for anyone in its path. If more Confederate ships come in, however, they’ll have to deal with homing missiles.

Behind these are eight  _ Jadthu _ -class cargo shuttles, all flighting lighter than normal, all still fairly ponderous. They carry what little weaponry and medical supplies the  _ Coelacanth _ had left to spare—nothing serious, but any quantity of bacta and blaster rifles is an improvement. Their landing claws are already extended—once they’ve disgorged their contents, the shuttles will take to the sky once more. They’re not heavily armed, but each carries a pair of forward-facing laser cannons in case of emergencies. The pilots are under no illusions about the odds of their winning any dogfights, but anything is better than just sitting on landing platforms.

Taking up the rear with a lumbering, dogged drone are four Y-wing bombers. They’re slow, they’re clumsy, and they won’t do much good down here, but if any of the big ships up top needs taking out, they’ll do their best before they’re downed—the proton torpedoes they carry pack enough punch to reduce a battle cruiser’s bridge to twisted metal. For now, their plan is to dip down beneath the underside of Stratum Apolune and stay out of sight until needed.

The twin Confederate transports shriek to a halt several feet above a platform on outer edge of the city; if they take the time to land any closer, their pilots know, the Z-95 units above the city will find and obliterate them. Doors roar open, ramps extend, and clones pour out, leaping down to the ground and charging forward.

Too late, a Sawshark pilot roars into firing range and unleashes hell, its lasers chewing through both transports before they can start moving again. Molten wreckage spatters onto the landing platform or falls into the abyss, and several of the rearmost Trandoshan soldiers are set ablaze, but fifty clones are still moving, charging inward for the city proper, where starfighters won’t be able to take a shot at them without endangering the city.

In the war room, the holographic projection of Stratum Apolune lights up red with the new infection racing through the city’s bloodstream. The palace droidsmith swipes at the hologram, disconnecting the landing platform, but it’s slow to float away—perhaps ten clones are left stranded, but forty have crossed the threshold.

And in any case, Jesmyn realizes, cutting off pieces of the city is only a solution for so long. If they keep going that route, eventually troop transports will just be landing on the central platforms, within arm’s reach of the palace. Better to force the foot soldiers to make their way from platform to platform, pick them off as they move.

Dooku’s palace security won’t be up to the task. But the Arkanian knows a fighting force that will.

Easing their hand into their pocket, they pull out a small device that looks almost like a commlink. A single, tiny bulb is nestled in one end; at the moment, it’s dull, lifeless.

Jesmym casts a glance at Qui-Gon Jinn, remembers the alarm on her face when she realized what the droidsmith was planning. Then at Dooku—the Count’s face is drawn, the blood drained, as he watches clone units speed inward from the city perimeter.

_ Screw it, _ think the Arkanian.

The bulb flashes green.

Though they know it’s nothing more than fancy, they imagine they can almost hear the sudden resonant groaning as mining units throughout the palace area suddenly rise to their feet. Turn their heads.

Start to move.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Valis said aloud, watching the afterimage of the Star Destroyer slowly fade from the  _ Charybdis _ ’ viewport, “I was hoping our first engagement with Typhoon Division would be a bit more protracted.”

She knew Maul—standing beside her, hands clasped behind his back—could sense her true feelings beneath the quip. This was not good. Throwing the battle when Serenno had a defense of some kind was one thing. Somehow managing it when the moon's one orbital guardian had decided to fly the coop?

_ They haven’t just run off, of course, they’re going to get help.  _ But that could take who knew how long. The way things stood now, the battle was going to be over within minutes.

“Admiral,” said Rama, disappointment evident in her voice, “it looks like they managed to scramble some ships before they jumped. Can’t tell what exactly they are from here, but they’re all small and they’re all headed for the atmosphere. The Z-95s are following them.”

“They want to turn it into a ground engagement, then,” said Valis, shooting Maul a significant look. That was precisely the course of action that would work in their favor—a prolonged war of attrition, with Republic defenses picking off Confederate ships and troops until the  _ Coelacanth _ could bring in reinforcements and she could order a retreat. There remained, however, the obvious problem.

How could she run the battle that way without  _ looking _ like she was trying to lose?

_ There’s always Dooku to use an excuse, _ she thought to Maul.  _ He’s worth more to us alive. The same is true for Kenobi. Imagine the propaganda value of capturing them both. An orbital bombardment is too risky. _

_ Not that you actually plan on capturing Kenobi,  _ he shot back pointedly.  _ Remember that. _

Rather than dignifying this with a response, Valis directed Rama to open a channel to Threll. “Archon,” Valis began, “considering Count Dooku’s value as a political prisoner, along with Obi-Wan Kenobi’s, I suggest we keep our capital ships out of the fray for the time being. We can send in troop transports and fighters to harry them from the air, keep them on their toes, wear them down.”

“ _ My thoughts are similar, _ ” Threll replied curtly. “ _ We’re preparing ground assault units. _ ”

Rama raised an eyebrow as soon as the line went dead. “Well,  _ that _ was easy.”

Valis and Maul shared a long look. The Zabrak’s amber eyes were narrowed, his teeth bared not in pleasure but in distrust. “Far too easy,” he said aloud.

“I’ve humiliated her in front of her troops, taken over the mission, threatened her,” Valis continued. “Why should she give in so easily when I start directing the battle? There must be . . .”

With a snap of her fingers, she pointed out the viewport. “Maul. You’ve fought Kenobi, I assume you know him.” The unspoken corollary, which she shoved into his head with her own:  _ Search for him down there. _

The Zabrak gave a faint growl, then closed his eyes and bowed his head, his horns angling toward the moon. Valis could hear a soft  _ creak  _ as he squeezed his fists together tightly,  crushing his leather gloves. Out of the corner of her eye, her XO did her best to act as though she wasn’t fazed by whatever it was her warlord was doing.

Suddenly, Maul hissed, as though he’d been struck by something. His eyes snapped open as his head whirled round to fix Valis in his stare.

“He’s not down there.”

Lip rising in a sneer of empty satisfaction—at least she’d guessed right before they’d properly joined the battle—Valis looked down at Rama. “Ping one of the Archon’s frigates. Secure line.”

The voice that answered was a normal being, not a clone.  _ Good.  _ “ _ This is Captain Hargent of the frigate  _ Covina _ , _ ” said the officer on the other end of the line. Valis couldn’t place the species, but the intonation was enough for her to know that whoever this was, they weren’t exactly a courageous specimen. Even being hailed by the  _ Charybdis _ was enough to put a tiny waver into his voice.

“Ah, Captain Hargent, just the man I wanted to speak to,” she said briskly. “This is Admiral Valis of the  _ Charybdis _ . Tell me, do you happen to have any information on the current whereabouts of General Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

A sharp intake of breath that the captain tried too late to cover with a cough came through the line; then, “ _ Admiral Valis, I, ah, really can’t say I know why you’re asking me that question. _ ”

With a snort, Valis turned to Maul. “You do the talking.”

The warlord walked a semicircle to place himself as close to the mic as possible, boots thumping with muted heaviness against the deck. “Captain Hargent,” he said, his voice a cold rasp. “This is Warlord Maul. Where is Kenobi?”

Another inhalation issued, but before it could finish silence slammed down across the bridge. Despite the gravity of the circumstances, Valis couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. “Did he just  _ hang up _ on us? Once we get through with this, if he’s still alive I’ll have him—”

A crackle of static interrupted her—the line sprang back to life. “ _ I, ah, I—Warlord Maul? _ ” Captain Hargent asked, the final two words sinking to a strangled whisper.

“He’s still here, Captain, I assure you,” said Valis.

Hargent sighed, then said, the words running together and barely audible: “ _ Generalkenobiisaboardthelancerstationinthebrig. _ ”

Before Valis could formulate a response, the line went dead once more.

If the lie were in any way surprising, Valis might have been outraged. Instead, she simply looked at Maul and said, “Well. That changes things.”

_ There are still two Jedi left on Serenno, _ he shot back, though it was impossible for him to disguise the livid boiling behind his eyes.  _ And a brig is as good a place to kill Kenobi as any. But— _

_ —if Threll is willing to conceal this from us, who knows what else she’s concealing,  _ Valis finished for him.

“We keep this to ourselves for now,” she told Rama aloud. “If Captain Hargent was too frightened of Warlord Maul to keep the secret, he’ll be too frightened of Threll to tell her he gave it up.”

The XO nodded, her leathery skin flushed with anger. “And how will we deal with Threll?”

“All in good time,” the admiral replied, though in her mind she was turning over that question and examining it from as many different angles as she could. “For now, we have transports to launch.”

 

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES:** _ **HYPERION- _CLASS TROOP TRANSPORT_**

The Confederacy of Independent Systems’ philosophy of cheap efficiency in ship design extends not only to their capital ships but to their smaller craft. For much of the Clone Wars, their troop transports of choice were the boxy  _ Nova _ -class landers, which were slow-moving and relied on exceptionally thick armor to avoid destruction. **_  
_ **

**_ In recent months, however, the need for speedy insertion seems to have finally become a priority for the CIS. Engineered by the shipyards of Sluis Van, the  _ Hyperion _ -class transport is almost the inverse of the  _ Nova _ lander. Stripped of extra hull plating, it relies mostly on weak ray shielding for protection, and its narrow shape means its carrying capacity is reduced to thirty units. What it sacrifices in size and durability it makes up in speed and maneuverability—in atmosphere, it exceeds the Republic LAAT gunship’s maximum velocity and is even able to keep pace with starfighters. For protection, it relies on two rear-facing laser cannons—the philosophy being that what it’s running away from is more important than what it’s flying toward. After all, the clone soldiers it expels upon landing can usually handle that. _ **


	45. Improvised Extraction

The _Spice Dancer_ ’s engine room lacked the pristine polish of the rest of the vessel’s interior—by Tyyria Nox’s estimation, it was the one spot on board that hadn’t received a facelift when the ship was retrofitted. Whether updating the engine room’s aesthetic was overlooked out of some necessity or by request of the owner, the Twi’lek couldn’t be certain. 

The space felt more storied than the galley Tyyria had spent the last several hours wasting time in; finally bored to the point of action, she’d dragged herself from the couch and wandered aft until she encountered the engine room. She’d discovered a room whose deck and walls carried what must have been their original color—a dull gray, plated by a layer of rust that had for one reason or another been sanded down into smoothness. 

It smelled of cheap engine grease, and carried the distinct aura of a place that had once been a complete mess. There was still the occasional loose panel or bundle of wire hanging from the wall—telltale signs of ramshackle repairs, no doubt performed mid-flight. Most curious of all was the series of deep gashes bordered by burnt metal— _ If I didn’t know any better I’d say a lightsaber did that,  _ Tyyria thought.  _ Skywalker? Or perhaps Master Kenobi . . .  _

Her mind trailed off, and she turned to face the one engine component that was undoubtedly brand new, an amalgamation of glistening white and chrome and untarnished black metal. The hyperdrive pulsed with energy, oscillating in a low  _ thwum  _ that was felt more than heard—a bright spark discharging within the humming machine cast a flash of light throughout the otherwise dim engine room, if only for a moment. It was mesmerizing to watch—Tyyria found it almost as enthralling as the swirling blue of hyperspace itself. 

“Hey,” a voice came from behind her—though it was the clank of boots on metal that tore Tyyria from her trance. Padmé had landed at the bottom of the  _ Dancer _ ’s cockpit access ladder—with one arm wrapped around a chest high rung, the pilot stared into the engine room at the snooping Jedi. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Tyyria mumbled, her gaze flitting to the floor. “I should’ve asked before poking around.” 

Padmé scoffed and waved a dismissive hand, pushing back from the ladder at the same time. “You’re good. That’s not why I came down here.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward the ship’s forward section. “We’re almost to the Telos system. Gotta get you geared up.” With that, she spun on a heel and walked away from Tyyria. 

“Geared up?” the Jedi asked, half jogging to catch up with Padmé—as the human reached the end of the corridor, she paused and turned to a door set in the port side of the hall. It slid aside with the press of a button, and Padmé ducked into the space beyond. Tyyria followed closely behind. 

The pair emerged into a room more spartan than the  _ Dancer _ ’s living areas.  A floor of textured metal ran underfoot, and equipment racks lined the far wall. In the center of the room, a swoop bike sat bolted to the floor. 

“Nice ride,” Tyyria muttered, a low whistle escaping her lips. 

“Yeah, well,” Padmé said, staring at the bike and trailing off slightly before she continued, “I don’t get to take it out much anymore. Then again, I did crash the last one. Maybe it’s better this way.” 

“So,” Tyyria said, drawing out the word, “what exactly are we doing in your bike garage?” 

“Like I said,” Padmé replied, “gearing up. You weren’t gonna board that Lancer with just a lightsaber on your belt, were you?” She spun to face one of the garage walls. This one was not lined with open shelving—rather, a sizeable storage cabinet sat against the bulkhead. 

Tyyria’s eyes wandered up and down the cabinet—rather curiously, a keypad was set into the unit’s door. She watched as Padmé’s fingers flew across the keys and the cabinet’s lock  _ clunked _ . With a grand gesture, the human woman threw her arms apart, sending the cabinet doors sprawling open. 

“Woah.”

“Yep.” The two women stood before a fully stocked weapon rack—multiple blaster pistols and rifles sat mounted in the cabinet, and a shelf of spare power packs ran beneath them. Clusters of grenades hung from inside each cabinet door, and though Tyyria couldn’t tell a thermal detonator from an ion grenade—explosives weren’t something often used by the Jedi—even she knew that an impressive amount of destructive potential lay before her. 

“So,” Padmé began, “what’s your preference?” She swept a hand across the firearm rack, as if she were a salesperson showcasing her inventory. 

Tyyria cocked her head to one side, and felt her lekku droop slightly in the same direction. “Huh?” 

“Got a favorite gun?” 

A dry, snappy laugh escaped Tyyria’s lips. “No, Padmé, I don’t have a ‘favorite gun.’ They don’t teach marksmanship at the Jedi Temple.” 

A smirk crept up one corner of Padmé’s mouth. “You don’t say? So there’s no gunslinger Jedi Knight?” 

“Actually, there is,” Tyyria replied with a shrug—at this, Padmé’s hands dropped to her side and her eyebrows arched. “Never met him, though. We aren’t really supposed to talk about him; some of the masters don’t really approve of his . . . methods.” Silence hung between them for a moment—Tyyria stared at the weapon rack, and Padmé stared back at Tyyria. “All that to say, I don’t have a blaster preference. I went to a shooting range a couple times with some friends on Naboo, but I’m not a very good shot.”

“In that case,” Padmé said, turning back to the weapon rack and plucking a blaster from its perch, “we’ll have you take the autopistol.” Spinning the weapon in her hand, she held it grip first toward Tyyria. “Fires six shots with each pull of the trigger; mash it and it’ll keep spewing bolts downrange. Of course, do that for too long and it’ll overheat . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head and gesturing with the gun. “Anyway, you’re bound to hit  _ something  _ with this.” 

“Thanks,” Tyyria replied as she grasped the pistol’s grip. The gun weighed more than she had expected it to—she fumbled with it slightly as Padmé let go, leaving it completely in her hand. Hefting the pistol, she turned it in multiple directions, attempting to grow accustomed to the weight—out of the corner of her eye, she could make out Padmé snatching more guns off the weapon rack. 

“Heads up,” Padmé said. “You’ll want to put this on.” Tyyria flinched slightly as a small object flew through the air and landed at her feet—a holster, clearly meant to hold the autopistol, sat before her. Her free hand wandered down to her belt—her lightsaber was attached to her left hip, and now a gun would sit on her right. 

“Let’s get upstairs,” Padmé said, slinging a blaster of her own across her body—the weapon was unusual, almost elegantly curved, with a carrying strap attached to each end. Padmé tugged at one end of the strap, tightening the fabric from shoulder to hip. Tapping the weapon with one hand, she shot a snappy nod at Tyyria. “We’ve got a Lancer to invade.” 

 

* * *

 

Padmé settled into the  _ Dancer _ ’s pilot chair, shoving Liz aside with one hand as the droid slid into the copilot seat with a digital grumble. Behind her, Padmé could just make out the form of Tyyria Nox, who had yet to sit down—the Twi’lek was fiddling with the holster that was now strapped to her belt.

“If you’re gonna stand up,” Padmé said, turning back slightly to look at Tyyria, “you might want to hold on to something.” She returned her attention to the forward viewport, which was streaked with the cyan starlines of hyperspace. Padmé pulled back on the  _ Dancer _ ’s hyperdrive lever—starlines became stars and the ship rocked slightly as it dropped back into realspace. 

The great durasteel ring of a Lancer bombardment station hung in the distance, surrounded by construction ships. Parts of the station were still wrapped in a web of scaffolding, though that web was being untangled in real time—Padmé could see ships towing the metal girders away from the Lancer. 

Beyond the Confederate construct, the world of Telos IV served as a backdrop. It was an amber marble with nearly an entire quadrant cloaked in metal hexagons: the orbital station once used to terraform the world and now used as a shipbuilding platform. 

“It’s . . . smaller than I expected,” Tyyria muttered from behind Padmé—the pilot felt a hand fall against the back of her chair. 

“We’re pretty far away,” Padmé replied. “Didn’t want to come out of lightspeed too close and get caught. Once we know where we’re going, I’ll burn the engines for a couple seconds to get us moving toward it.” 

“We must select a landing spot first, of course,” Liz piped up from the copilot seat—the blue-eyed droid was all too cheery as she spoke. 

“Hang on,” Padmé interrupted, holding up a hand in Liz’s direction. She glanced back at Tyyria. “Before we go, I have to know: is Obi-Wan still alive?” 

“Padmé . . .” the Jedi said, drawing out the word as if she were scolding a child. 

“It’s a fair question,” Padmé shot back through somewhat gritted teeth. “And it doesn’t change the plan. We’re going in one way or the other. I just need to know if we’re rescuing a friend or recovering his body.” 

Tyyria nodded, exhaling slowly through her nose. “Okay.” The Twi’lek’s eyes fluttered closed—she lowered her head slightly, at the same time opening her hands and holding her arms at her sides. 

Padmé’s fingers wandered up to the wooden carving dangling from her neck—she grasped the piece of the Jedi Temple’s tree, somehow hoping it would help Tyyria in her search for Obi-Wan. A silent prayer flitted across her mind—though it was not to the pantheon she’d grown up praying to. She instead found herself praying to the Force. 

After an agonizing silence, Tyyria said: “He’s alive.”

“Thank the gods,” Padmé said—a rush of breath left her mouth, and her hand dropped from her necklace back into her lap. Turning from the viewport, she glanced back at Tyyria. “Has he been captured?” 

The Twi’lek’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell am I supposed to know that?” 

“I don’t know,” Padmé shot back, shrugging. “Can’t you . . . sense it?” 

A scowl crossed Tyyria’s face—the Twi’lek rolled her eyes and turned to face the back of the cockpit. “It doesn’t work like that. At least not for me. I’m good with machines, and . . . old books. I have no idea how I’m supposed to sense if they’ve captured him.”

“Fine, we’ll figure that out once we’re on board,” Padmé muttered—her pilot’s chair creaked as she swiveled around to face Liz. “You’ve got a map of the station in that brain of yours, right?”

“A  _ partial  _ map,” the droid replied, vocabulator buzzing in apparent annoyance. “I constructed it as I walked through. Never had a chance to plug in and download a map of the whole thing.” 

“Well, that’s our first order of business, getting you plugged in. Do you know of a data room somewhere”—she waved her hand at the viewport, indicating the distant Lancer station—“where you could connect to their network? You could find out if they’ve captured Obi-Wan.” 

Liz’s eyes went dark; the droid’s head tilted forward slightly, accompanied by a slight whirring sound. After a few seconds, she sprang back to life. “Got it.” Robotic limbs grasped the control yoke in front of the copilot’s seat—the  _ Dancer  _ rocked slightly as the space outside the window appeared to rotate around it. 

“There,” Liz said. “A short burn on this vector will put us on course for a good landing. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Padmé glanced behind her, then back out the viewport, and finally back at Liz. She nodded once at the droid. “Hit it.” 

The rumble of the engines sounded behind and slightly below Padmé, but only for a few seconds. With artificial precision Liz shut off the accelerator, leaving the  _ Dancer  _ to drift toward the looming Lancer station. 

_ Maybe “drift” isn’t quite the right word,  _ Padmé thought—the rate at which the Confederate bombardment station approached was rather impressive. It grew larger in the viewport until it filled nearly the entire thing—and that was when she saw it. 

“There’s his ship,” Padmé muttered, lazily raising a finger to gesture at the sleek black vehicle stuck against the drab grey of the Lancer. Obi-Wan had evidently borrowed Qui-Gon’s racing vessel for the journey.

“How’d he manage to board the station that way?” Tyyria asked. 

“Racing ships like that usually have a docking umbilical. That way pilots can disembark without loading the thing onto a carrier ship. He probably attached the docking tube and cut his way inside with a lightsaber, just like we did last time.” 

“Huh,” Tyyria mumbled. “I take it that’s the plan for us too?” 

Padmé nodded. “That reminds me”—she swiveled around to face the Jedi—”I’ve got another favor to ask.” 

“Uh oh.” 

“I could fire up the repulsors to slow us down, but they might detect the power spike if I do that. Could you—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Tyyria interrupted, grumbling as she took a step backwards. She adjusted her stance, spacing her feet wide and planting one behind the other. Stretching her arms out toward the _ Dancer _ ’s viewport, open palms facing the window, the Twi’lek closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “This may not be the smoothest landing of your life,” she said. “You might want to hang on.” 

 

* * *

 

A Force-powered landing was no more pleasant to sit through the second time, but it had worked.  _ For the  _ last _ time,  _ Padmé promised herself as she took a step toward the elevator doors.

Tyyria closed her eyes, and Padmé could hear the hiss of air rapidly entering—and subsequently leaving—Tyyria’s nose. After a moment’s silence, her eyes fluttered back open. “We’re clear. I don’t sense anyone on the other side of the door.” 

“I have life form sensors too, you know,” Liz grumbled from behind Padmé. 

Turning to glance back at her droid, Padmé raised an eyebrow. “And?” 

“I’m just saying, I can help too. We didn’t need to bring her along just so we’d have magical people radar.” 

“Wow,” Padmé muttered, turning back to the front of the elevator. She locked eyes with the Jedi. “Thank you, Tyyria.”

The Jedi kept her hand pressed firmly against the door controls. “Before we keep going . . .” she began, drifting off into silence as if searching for the right words. “Obviously we made it this far without bumping into anyone. Nobody waiting as we cut into the station, nobody guarding the elevator. We’ve gotten lucky.” 

“I thought the Jedi didn’t believe in luck,” Padmé interrupted, suppressing a sardonic grin.

“We’ve gotten lucky,” Tyyria repeated, speaking slower and leaning in toward Padmé. “But our luck’s got to change sometime. This data room we’re headed to will almost certainly be guarded. We’ll need to take people out quietly. And we don’t have any silenced blasters.” 

“You can’t silence a blaster bolt,” Padmé replied. “But I’ve got us covered.” Bringing her right hand up behind her shoulder, she grasped the handle of the sword strapped to her back and drew it. As Padmé jabbed the tip of the sword outward and snapped her wrist in a twisting motion, the weapon transformed into the form she’d used in the canals on Naboo.

“A bow?” Tyyria asked. Her hand remained steady on the door controls.

“Open the door, Tyyria,” Padmé said. “I’ll take point. Just trust me.” 

The turbolift doors  _ swished  _ apart, revealing a featureless corridor stretching before them. As Padmé strode in front of her two companions with confident yet gentle footfalls, she reached into the quiver strapped to her belt and withdrew a bolt that was only slightly longer than her hand. Nocking it in the bow’s firing mechanism, she slowed her pace—they were approaching an intersection in the corridor. 

She motioned behind her with an open palm, gesturing for Liz and Tyyria to slow down—she, too, came to a stop just before the intersection, leaning out just enough to peer around the corner. 

_ There it is,  _ Padmé thought. The data room they were after—and only one officer stood guard. She gripped her bow’s firing mechanism, drew it back . . . and took a full step into the hallway. 

The sound of her footfalls seemed to get the guard’s attention—he spun to face her. She was all too familiar with the eyes that stared at her. The clone officer’s right arm snapped to his belt, fingers wrapping around the grip of his sidearm. 

Though he was fast, Padmé was faster—she loosed the bolt. It sang as it whizzed through the air—an instant later, a sound filled the space like someone had jammed a fork into a slab of meat. The clone’s eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed to the deck, the bolt buried in his neck. 

“Nice shot,” came a voice from behind her—Liz strolled out from behind the corner, her red eyes darting between Padmé and the body. “I’ll move him inside the room.” As Liz looped her robotic limbs underneath the clone’s own arms, Padmé flicked her left wrist. The bow’s limbs folded back into the shape of a vibrosword blade, and she returned the weapon to the sheath on her back. 

Tyyria appeared behind Padmé next—she was visibly unsettled by the sight of the dead clone being dragged along the deck, and her autopistol sat cradled in a shaky grip between her hands. 

Padmé glanced at the weapon, then back up at Tyyria. “If you want to actually use that,” she said with a smirk, “you should probably turn the safety off.” Striding forward, she followed her droid into the data room. 

Stacks of computer banks lined the walls, their status lights pulsing in a coordinated rhythm. At each wall sat a terminal—a square screen positioned at an upward angle, clearly meant to be used standing up, displayed rows upon rows of information. It moved too fast for Padmé to parse, but the displays were likely meant for the Confederacy’s clone officers, and would certainly be no issue for a droid. 

Liz, who had unceremoniously dumped the clone body in one corner of the room, had already plugged a data jack into one of the terminals. The probe extended from her right arm—as data scrolled across the terminal screen, the droid seemed to freeze in place. 

Padmé stood still in the center of the room, watching Liz intently as her eyes flashed rapidly on and off. It was normal, something she’d seen her droid do several times before, but it was still somewhat worrying to watch. 

Her concentration broke as Tyyria brushed past her. The Jedi shuffled over to the desk beneath one of the computer terminals—placing her gun on the tabletop, she leaned against it with both hands. 

“You all right?” Padmé asked, taking a half step toward the Jedi. 

“Just worried. Our luck’s gonna run out . . .” 

“Got it!” came Liz’s voice—the droid’s eyes had returned to normal, and she took a step back from the terminal as the data jack jutting from her arm retracted. “I’m networked in, I’ve got a map . . .” She trailed off, and her eyes shifted blue. “They’ve captured Mister Kenobi. He’s in the detention area. If you’d please follow me, I know the way.”

Padmé nodded. It wasn’t the news she’d been hoping for, but it was what she’d been expected. “Lead the way. Just keep it quiet and—”

She was interrupted by a chain of events that happened so quickly it took her several moments to even piece them together.

First, a voice—a man, one she didn’t recognize—spoke over her. “What the hell?” 

Then, a rush of motion. Tyyria, spinning around in a fluid turn, snatched her gun off the table and turned to face this new arrival. The flash of blaster fire illuminated the rom in a series of red bursts, accompanied by the high-pitched  _ snap  _ of Tyyria’s autopistol:  _ One, two, three, four, five, six.  _

A hiss of smoke. A wet cough. A thud as a body hit the floor. When time seemed to return to normal speed, Padmé was greeted with a sight she’d never expected to see. Tyyria, gun held high and leveled at the door, stood opposite a uniformed CIS officer. The officer lay collapsed on the floor, six burning holes spaced erratically around the torso of his uniform. 

“Oh my gods.” 

A wince crossed Tyyria’s face. “Ah, crap. I . . . I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no,” Padmé said, shaking her head. “It’s fine. You did the right thing.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Besides, he was alone. If nobody heard, then we’re probably fine. Stick to the plan, sneak down to Obi-Wan, and—”

There was a light  _ clink  _ near the body on the floor—Padmé could just make out a slim metal cylinder rolling out of the officer’s hand. A red pip of light pulsed rapidly on the device—it filled her with a sense of dread. 

Moments later, an ear-splitting klaxon sounded throughout the room. 

“General alarm!” Liz yelled over the blaring noise. “Miss Padmé, he just alerted everyone that there’s an intruder on board.” 

Padmé swore under her breath.

“There are several life forms converging on our location,” Liz continued—there was a brief pause, and her eyes snapped red. “See, I can sense them too.” 

“Save it, Liz!” Padmé yelled. Reaching for the other weapon she’d brought along—a personal defense blaster that was hanging from a strap across her body—she stepped over the dead officer and stuck her head out the data room door. 

“What’re we gonna do now?” Tyyria asked. 

Padmé glanced back at her—she could feel a fire behind her eyes. There was panic, yes; she was scared. She was also more determined than ever to get her friend off the station in one piece. She looked back out the door once more before locking eyes with Tyyria. “We’re gonna run.” 

 

* * *

 

The smell of burnt ozone stung Tyyria’s nose as a blaster bolt whizzed past her and slammed into the nearby wall. Without turning around, she held her blaster pistol behind her and squeezed the trigger. A volley of six shots sprayed backwards—though she didn’t look back to see if she’d hit anything, she could feel that she hadn’t. There were no flashes of pain, no dimming life signs in the Force. Another squeeze of the trigger was equally fruitless. 

She inhaled sharply. Her lungs were burning—she had, along with Padmé and Liz, been running full tilt through the corridors of the Confederacy’s bombardment station for several minutes in an attempt to descend to the deck which held the station’s cell block. They’d taken turbolifts when they were available, and stairs whenever turbolifts weren’t an option, and bolted through hallway after hallway while being shot at by clones. It was, she thought, starting to get tiring. 

Thus, the sense of relief that washed over her upon hearing Padmé’s shout of “there it is!” was palpable. She could see it up ahead: a heavy blast door, flanked on either side by a clone soldier—the entrance to the detention block. 

Tyyria half expected the blast door to start sliding closed as they approached it—the way their luck had been going, it wouldn’t have surprised her. What actually happened was far worse—several more soldiers poured out of the detention center door, sending red lances of blaster fire sizzling through the air in her direction. 

Swearing, the Jedi ducked as a bolt shot through the air where her head had been a second prior—when she glanced back up, the trooper that had taken the shot was full of smoking holes. Tyyria glanced beside her—Padmé, who was keeping pace while brandishing a bullpup personal defense blaster in her hands, had clearly fired her weapon. Steam hissed from within the vents on one side of the strangely shaped blaster. 

“Thanks,” Tyyria panted. 

“Don’t mention it,” Padmé called back, rushing forward before coming to a hard stop, back against the wall just beside the detention block entryway. Tyyria watched as the other woman  inhaled deeply, blind-fired several volleys of blaster bolts into the detention area, and then ducked into the door herself. Their droid companion wasn’t far behind—Tyyria held up the rear, uselessly firing another spray of autopistol shots at their pursuers before ducking into the detention area herself. 

Tyyria barely had time to take in her surroundings before she recoiled from the instructions being barked at her. 

“Go bust him out!” came Padmé’s shout. 

“He’s in the second cell on the right!” Liz’s vocabulator buzzed, the droid’s voice was slightly distorted as she attempted to yell. 

Sprinting forward into the narrow corridor of holding cells, Tyyria risked a glance behind her. Padmé and Liz were each taking cover behind a console of sorts, evidently preparing for a new wave of clones to arrive at the entry. As Padmé settled in and propped her rifle up against the tabletop, Liz snatched a blaster from one of the clone bodies on the floor. 

With a shake of her head, Tyyria turned her attention to the cells before her.  _ Second on the right,  _ she mentally echoed Liz’s words, strolling forward to the cell in question. It was covered by a sturdy looking blast door; a control panel sat embedded in the wall to the right of the door. Reaching forward, Tyyria poked the button marked “ _ OPEN”  _

A harsh buzz greeted her, and the display panel flashed with the words “ _ GENERAL ALARM. LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT.” _

“Hey, guys?” Tyyria called out down the hallway. “This cell won’t open while that stationwide alarm is active!” 

“Figure something out!” came the eventual reply, barked between volleys of blaster fire and shouted curses. “Liz tried, she can’t shut the alarm off.” 

Tyyria gritted her teeth. Her hand wandered down to her belt—first to holster the autopistol, then to extract a much more potent weapon.  _ If you got us through the station hull,  _ Tyyria thought at the lightsaber as she plucked it from her belt,  _ surely you can get through this.  _

A  _ snap-hiss  _ filled the hallway, as did a cyan glow. Tyyria eyed the blast door—cutting a hole in it would take too long, she knew.  _ It’s got to have a weak point. Maybe I start there.  _ Stepping forward, she plunged the saber into the door, near where the durasteel plate met its frame. After several moments, the lightsaber blade sank further into the door—she was all but certain she’d melted through the deadbolt lock. 

Powering off the lightsaber, Tyyria stepped back as she returned the weapon to her belt. She held a hand upward, palm facing the door, and quickly swept it to the side. The door slid open as if it had never been locked—a sigh of relief escaped Tyyria’s mouth at the sight within. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi was kneeling in the center of the cell, eyes closed and head tilted downward in meditation. As the door moved aside, his eyes gently opened and he looked up at Tyyria. Eyebrows raising, he gaped at the sight of her. 

“Master Kenobi,” she said with a bow. “We’ve come to rescue you.” 

“Oh!” the Jedi Master managed; then, “I must say,” he said as he rose to his feet, “when that door opened, you were not the person I expected to see. How did you get involved in all this?” As he stepped out of the cell, Obi-Wan’s eyes wandered to the pair defending the detention block entry.

“Ah, yes,” he continued dryly. “This makes more sense.” 

Though Liz and Padmé continued to trade fire with approaching clones, Obi-Wan strode toward them with confidence. As he stepped just beside Padmé, the Jedi Master raised a hand—the two remaining clone soldiers flew through the air, slamming into each other. Their skulls cracked against one another, and they crumpled to the ground. 

“That was the last of them,” Liz said, rising to her feet. “I’ll shut and lock the door. If more show up, that’ll hold them off.”

“For now.” Padmé, too, stood up from behind her cover—though she immediately turned to embrace Obi-Wan. 

He returned the hug, and a smile crossed his face. “Thank you. Thank you for coming for me. Though I have to wonder how you even knew—”

“We can talk about that later, once we’re back on the  _ Dancer.  _ We’ve still got to fight our way out of here.” Breaking the embrace, Padmé took a step back and looked over at Tyyria. “He needs a weapon. Wanna give one up?” 

The Twi’lek nodded, and her hand wandered down to the holster on her hip. Extracting the blaster, she held it out toward Obi-Wan. The Jedi Master raised an eyebrow as he stared at the weapon—from beside him, Padmé let out a low chuckle. 

“I meant the lightsaber, Tyyria.” 

_ Of course she did,  _ Tyyria thought—sheepishly, she returned the blaster to its holster and handed Obi-Wan the lightsaber hanging from her belt. 

“Okay, everyone set?” Padmé began. “Let’s get out of—”

There was a great  _ thwum _ -ing noise, and the Lancer station seemed to rock back and forth around Tyyria. Everyone seemed to be glancing in a different direction—some back at the cells, others at the now-closed blast door covering the detention block entry. It was Liz who spoke first. 

“They just made the jump to lightspeed.” 

“You’re sure?” Padmé said—her voice was breathy, almost panicked. 

“I can plug in to confirm if you’d like, Miss Padmé, but I am almost certain of it. That motion is consistent with a station of this size entering hyperspace.” The droid’s eyes shifted colors. “So basically, we’re screwed.” 

“No we’re not,” Padmé said, eyes narrowing as she scolded the droid. “We’ve survived worse.” 

“ _ I  _ haven’t,” Tyyria said. 

A smile crossed Obi-Wan’s face. “Well, if you’re looking to start surviving impossible odds, you’re in good company.”

“We’ll be fine,”  Padmé said. “We’ll just sneak on out of here and make our way back to the  _ Dancer.  _ By the time reinforcements show up here at the detention area, we’ll be long—”

A high pitched  _ sizzle  _ interrupted Padmé—the group turned in unison to face the blast door. Sparks were spouting from the center of the door; someone was trying to cut their way in. 

Wordlessly, Padmé brought her blaster up to bear on the door. Liz, too, leveled her stolen firearm at the sparking plate of durasteel. Positioned between them, Obi-Wan snapped his borrowed lightsaber to life, bathing the group in a gentle glow. 

Tyyria remained behind the confident trio, her shaky hand lowering to the holstered blaster at her side. “I dunno, guys,” she muttered as she extracted the autopistol from its holster. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: IVERS & MATHESON TACTICAL TECHNOLOGIES** _

Ivers & Matheson is a weapons manufacturer based in the Alderaanian city of Sanctuary Coast. They exclusively produce firearms meant to be wielded in one hand. 

In the early days of the Clone Wars, a wealthy investor founded Ivers & Matheson in the hopes of securing a Republic Defense Force contract to produce officers’ sidearms. In anticipation of winning the contract, the corporation manufactured thousands of new blaster pistols. However, the contract went to BlasTech Industries, leaving Ivers & Matheson with a massive inventory of weapons they could not sell—strict firearm ownership laws on Alderaan make the sidearms illegal for civilians to own. On the verge of financial collapse, Ivers & Matheson sold their entire inventory to the Royal House of Alderaan at a bulk discount. 

The company still exists, though in a much smaller form—it services the sidearms of Alderaan’s Royal Guard and produces custom orders for offworld buyers. Ivers & Matheson’s flagship product is the IMZ-19 Autopistol—this sidearm blaster’s advertising boasts a fire rate and recoil dampening rivaling a military issue blaster rifle packaged within a pistol housing. The “Autopistol” name is a slight misnomer—the weapon actually fires in six-round bursts to prevent overloading its small heatsink, though an automatic rate of fire can be achieved by “feathering” the trigger mechanism. 

Ivers & Matheson also produces a single-action “hand cannon” blaster pistol—the IMZ-7 Gundark—and a pistol-style scattergun which fires a spray of heated pellets designed to melt through body armor. 


	46. The Breach

For approximately thirty seconds, the Sawsharks had had nothing to do—Karin had melted the Confederate transports shortly after they’d dropped their troops, and no one could take shots at the clone footsoldiers without risking Stratum Apolune’s structural integrity. Then, however, their sensors had picked up yet another set of new arrivals—starfighters launched from the new CIS capital ships, no doubt looking to pick off the support vessels Cody had sent out before taking off. Two whole squadrons at least, all streaking straight for the capital.

“ _ At least we’re all gonna die together this time, _ ” Roland cracked, though his voice was dispirited enough that the joke sounded ominously sincere. “ _ Hey boss, I, ah, think I’ve got an idea. _ ”

Stripping her flight gloves off—the sweat collecting inside them was starting to feel slimy, and Karin had the feeling she was going to be in this cockpit a lot longer today one way or the other—Sawshark Leader replied, “We’re gonna need a lot of those, people, so keep ‘em coming. Roland?”

“ _ Those jellyfish back by the abandoned platforms, they sting pretty good if you get too close. Like, burn-out-your-whole-ship good. And from what I can tell, pulling those tri-fighters into the rings worked out  _ really _ well for Gaddi and the others. _ ”

It was such a relief to smile that for a moment Karin got the hysterical urge to cry. Instead, she simply cleared her throat and said, “Roland, I thought you said you never wanted to see flying jellyfish ever again.”

“ _ Yeah, yeah. Listen, those Y-wings aren’t exactly the best at evasive maneuvers, and we wanna keep them in reserve in case we end up needing to blow up our new neighbors. So Rin and I were thinking— _ ”

Karin’s sensors yelped a warning—the Confederate starfighters had broken atmosphere. Cutting across the Bith pilot, she finished, “Take the bombers, use ‘em as bait to draw some fighters into the jellyfish, hunker down over there. Right, perfect, do it.”

“ _Roland,_ ” Beeko’s voice asked innocently, “ _you’re sure you’re not just doing this so you and Rin can hide under a rock while the rest of us fight?_ ”

“ _ We shot down three transports, Beeko, so you can kiss my— _ ”

“Shut up and go, guys,” Karin barked, banking her fighter hard to port and angling it skyward, “they’re on their way. Everyone else, form up on me.”

An unfamiliar voice suddenly spoke through the general channel. “ _ Excuse me, ma’am, but what can we do? _ ”

_ Right, new ships.  _ Switching over, Karin said, “Right, apologies. All pilots, stick to the general channel from now on, keep these guys in the loop.” As nine Z-95 starfighters fell into position alongside her own, she said, “Well, Y-wings, I’m sure Sawshark Eight is already filling you in on what you’re gonna be doing. Shuttles, LAATs, I want you to stick close to the city. You’re not going to last long in a dogfight, and if anything slips past us there’ll need to be a line of defense.”

“ _ Yeah, Garven, somebody’s gotta pick up your sloppy seconds. _ ”

“Stow it, Beeko.”

All Z-95s but Rin and Roland accounted for, the Sawsharks hurtled upward toward the upper atmosphere. The trifighter squadrons were still a ways off, but with both sides headed toward each other at full throttle, that would change quickly. “No offense, everyone,” Karin said, watching moisture bead on her cockpit as she shot through a cloud, “but we really don’t have time to learn your names, and multiple squadron callsigns are just gonna be confusing. It’s four gunships and eight shuttles, right?”

The unfamiliar voice spoke up again—it was almost a kid’s, as though its owner were barely out of flight school. To her credit, she kept her reply firm, no more nerves under the surface than any of the Sawsharks were letting slip. “ _ Affirmative, Sawshark Leader. _ ”

“Okay, LAATs, you’re Rookie Squadron one through four. Shuttles, you’re five through twelve. When you’re on the general channel, that’s what you’ll use.”

“ _ Copy that. See you on the other side, Leader. _ ”

_ Now that babysitting’s over with,  _ Karin thought,  _ let’s do this. _

As the Sawsharks’ white floodlights pierced a final layer of thick clouds, the enemy came into view: two dozen scarlet pinpricks standing out against the black of the sky. At this range, they were close enough for missile locks, but this was going to be a battle of attrition—anything that could be kept in reserve needed to be. “Okay, guys,” Karin breathed, “lasers only. And remember, anything that gets past us isn’t gonna have anything standing between it and the city besides some kids who’ve just barely gotten clearance to fly.”

Nakuda rumbled something in Ithorese. “ _ I’ll spare you a translation, Leader, _ ” said Gaddi a few moments later.

“Oh, I think I caught the drift.”

In unison, the Sawsharks broke off, each one headed for the fighter they’d locked onto. Karin opened her throttle as far as it could go, screaming toward a trifighter that was doing its level best to match her speed.  _ Okay, you vat-grown freak,  _ she thought to herself,  _ let’s dance— _

“ _ Ahh, Sawshark Leader? _ ”

It was Rookie One again, over the general channel. Biting down on her lip for a long moment, Karin barked, “Now is not a good time.”

“ _ Sorry, but this is important, _ ” the kid insisted. “ _ There are new units down on the platforms, it looks like. And they and the clones are kicking the crap out of each other. _ ”

The laserlike focus required for a game of chicken had already been weakened by the interruption, and this piece of news broke it entirely. Easing up on her speed as laserfire started to thunder around her in bursts of crimson and emerald, Karin said, “Wait, Cody sent  _ more  _ backup?”

“ _ They’re not Republic hardware, Leader. They’re . . . some kind of droid. _ ”

 

* * *

 

The clones broke upon the mining droids like water against a dam.

There was simply no way for their training to prepare them to stand against golems the size of small giants. Sheer physical terror, something no geneticist was capable of breeding out of a living organism, made them hesitate when they saw the automatons charging toward them; by the time that moment of hesitation had passed, the clones unlucky enough to be at the front of the pack were being swatted into the sky or stomped upon like so many insects.

The droids had no combat training, nor any sophisticated self-preservational programming—they were designed to go past crush depth and back without breaking, their shells strong enough to withstand gravity itself, which meant that defending themselves really wasn’t something they had to put much thought into. The superheated plasma fired from the clones’ blasters didn’t even register as the metal giants lurched from left to right, flailing limbs at anything that moved.

The war room, of course, could see none of this directly—the skirmish was too far out for anyone to observe it from the windows. What they could see was the holoprojector doing its best to keep up as enemy units were hurled over the sides of Stratum Apolune or ran back and forth to keep out of the way of sudden doom.

Anakin gave a low whistle. “Those droids aren’t fooling around. I thought you said they didn’t have any combat programming.”

“They didn’t.”

The two words were spoken so quietly that they were almost inaudible, but they nevertheless drew everyone’s attention to the Count of Serenno.

Dooku was watching the projection with rapt attention, his body perfectly still. Gone was the emptiness that had filled his eyes, replaced not with his usual hawk’s watchfulness but something new. Smoldering, suppressed rage was held behind them like a furnace, and emanating from his Force presence was . . .

Anakin froze. Without warning, Dooku’s aura was roiling with the dark side.

“I believe I made myself quite clear,” he said. “Our world’s resources were not to be used as weapons of war. And yet . . .” Moving at last, he swiveled his eyes to rest on Jesmyn. “It seems I have been ignored.”

The Arkanian replied, their voice trembling, “We are  _ clearly _ beyond the point of staying out of a war—”

“But we were not yet past the point of dirtying  _ our _ hands, crafting weapons ourselves,” barked the Count, his baritone flaring into a sharpness that demanded obedience. “And you took it upon yourself to make that decision for me.”

Beside him, Lorian had gone pale, his face a mix of shock and denial and utter disappointment. Placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder, he said, “We don’t know that it was Jesmyn.”

“I won’t hide behind your good will, Viscount,” Jesmyn said, keeping their attention on Dooku. “Yes, I did this.”

Rather than respond to them, Dooku rounded on Qui-Gon, who stood behind him and Lorian. “You knew this when you went to fetch them, of course.”

Qui-Gon said nothing. Anakin could feel something close to shame coming from her, an emotion he’d not known she was capable of experiencing. “I have nothing to say in my defense,” she finally managed, gripping the head of her cane until her knuckles turned livid.

_ Gee,  _ Anakin thought,  _ thanks for telling me.  _ At the same time, he really didn’t have time for righteous indignation. Clearing his throat, he said, “Count, with all due respect, those things look like they’re decimating the clones out there. The longer we can keep them from reaching the inner platforms on foot, the better our chances are.”

“Skywalker, do me the courtesy of not stating the obvious,” Dooku said, his voice a sudden sneer of contempt. “There is nothing to be done, at any rate.” Turning back to Jesmyn, he said, icy blue eyes blazing, “You are dismissed as palace droidsmith, effective the moment this fiasco is over one way or another.”

A flush blossomed across the Arkanian’s pure white skin, but when they spoke to the Count their voice held the same frigid evenness as his own. “And until then?”

“Supervise what you’ve set loose.”

 

* * *

 

In the minutes the war room had been distracted, what Jesmyn had set loose had begun to falter.

The droids’ outer carapaces were ridiculously strong, but they were designed to stand against extreme gravitational force, not heat. When stray individual blaster shots had done nothing, the clones, all blessed with variations on the same mind, had recognized the futility of this approach and shifted course.

The soldiers who still stood fired in automatic bursts, clusters of five or six all aiming at the same points on their mechanical foes—joints, eyes, heat sinks. The effect was that of a slow but persistent chewing—chunks of metal shell were glowing red hot, then white, then flaking off and spattering onto the platforms. Of the six droids who’d been set loose, two now had an arm dangling at their sides, useless dead weight that could no longer move.

Against the droids too was their relative lack of maneuverability. They were  _ fast _ , but their immense weight meant they couldn’t pivot effectively were enemies to speed between their legs and end up behind them. Nor could they effectively come to a halt if forced to do so too quickly.

A squad of snarling Trandoshans were exploiting this ponderousness, emptying blast after blast of shotgun ammunition into the legs of a mining droid as it lurched from side to side trying to swat them away. The robot made noises that were remarkably like those of a frustrated child trying to accomplish a task and getting stuck for reasons beyond its comprehension—the targets it was used to tracking, far beneath the moon’s livable surface, were not given to scrambling about in this way.

As its legs, increasingly crisscrossed by glowing seams of molten casing, refused to do their job properly, the droid seemed to decide that what it couldn’t do with agility it would do through sheer force. Raising its right leg as high as it would go, the automaton brought it down with shattering force.

One of the Trandoshan clones was unlucky enough to be under the shadow of the descending metal foot, and was crushed in half. It was not the only thing affected, however. With an almighty, grinding crash, the mining droid’s limb punched through the platform’s surface. When it went to take another step, its servomotors squealed in alarm. Try as it might, it could not extricate its leg.

Snouts flecked with bloody foam, eyes wild with bloodlust, the remaining Trandoshans aimed as one at the flailing machine’s head and pulled their triggers. And again. And again, until the mining unit’s head was so much glowing slag.

Flicking open the general comms channel, Anakin asked, “Hey, LAATs, I don’t suppose any of you are within range of those clones?”

“ _ Rookie One here, sir, _ ” crackled over the line. “ _ I’m in range of the area, but none of us have any pod gunners. All we’ve got are rockets, and those are too imprecise. We could damage the droids. _ ”

For a split second, the Jedi felt like snapping back that were he piloting the ship, he’d find a way to do it.  _ But you’re not,  _ he told himself,  _ and it’s just a kid in there.  _ “Just try buzzing the platform, then,” he said, “see if you can get some of the clones to back off before they disable any more mining units. Rookie Two, you go with her.”

Jesmyn was chewing on their lip. “I’m going to tell the remaining ones to fall back. They’re best at just charging in and breaking the ranks, a sustained fight like this is only going to wear them down.”

“And what happens when the enemy reaches the inner city?” asked Lorian, watching the wireframe approximation of the outer brawl and flinching every few seconds. “We can’t just send mining droids rampaging after clones then, they’ll start wreaking havoc on the structures.”

“ _ If _ , Viscount,” Anakin said with more confidence than he was feeling. “And we’ve got palace security for when that comes.”

“And when they’re overrun?”

Forcing a smile, the Jedi replied, “I’m pretty handy with a lightsaber. We can hole up in here for days.”

On the holoprojector, five lumbering automatons turned tail and headed for the inner city. The twenty or so clones that had survived began to regroup, the tiny red dots melding into one large cluster—and promptly broke apart again as two LAATs zoomed close enough to scrape their paint.

His smile more genuine this time, Anakin said, “Nice one, guys. Hope you didn’t get any clone on your windshields.”

“ _ We’ve got problems, boss, _ ” came a reply—not the rookie this time.

_ Great.  _ “Really not what I want to be hearing, Karin. We lose anybody?”

“ _ Not yet _ ”—a sudden spray of laserfire sounded across the line, causing everyone assembled in the war room to wince—“ _ but at least four trifighters that we didn’t blow up are no longer on our radar. Rookies, I want you to shoot anything that flies as soon as you see it. _ ”

“At least they’re starfighters,” said Qui-Gon, “not troop transports.” Then, frowning, she added, “Though that doesn’t make much sense. We’re obviously overwhelmed down here. Why keep hurling fighters at us when they could land their troops all at once and steamroll us?”

“Feeling charitable, I guess?” The looks on Lorian and Dooku’s faces made Anakin instantly regret the crack, but it was the best he had. The enemy psychology and the strategy were Obi-Wan’s departments, wherever he was right now.

“ _ Something else too, boss, _ ” crackled another Sawshark—it sounded like Garven Dreis, but the signal was bad enough that Anakin couldn’t entirely tell. “ _ Sensors indi—merging from hyper— _ ”

“Something emerging from hyperspace? We don’t have anything like that on our end.” Whatever it was, it had to have been floating just beyond the Confederate capital ships that still hovered at the very edge of the space-view holoprojection. “Can you tell what it is?”

“ _ Signature isn’t anything I recognize, sir, _ ” said Nakuda. “ _ By the size of it, it’s probably another capital ship. _ ”

“Well, one more of those isn’t going to make much of a difference either way,” noted Jesmyn drily. “Since our friends up there don’t seem very much interested in orbital bombardment one way or the other.”

_ Can’t say they haven’t got a point, _ Anakin thought—

A shrill siren pounded at the confines of his skull, physically inaudible but there to the point of pain regardless. It was a warning call of the Force, one Anakin had experienced too many times to count, but amplified a thousandfold. His senses, heightened by the sudden all-consuming jolt, touched upon Qui-Gon and Dooku—they’d felt it too, he saw.

The flare of pain vanished quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a horrible, gut-churning foreknowledge. Dooku’s face was suddenly bone white, and Qui-Gon staggered back a step, cane rattling against the floor. Anakin looked down and saw that he’d brought his mechanical hand down on the table hard enough to crack the surface.

“We have to move the city,” he said, “ _ now. _ ”

Utterly confounded, Jesmyn flicked their gaze from Qui-Gon to Dooku to Anakin. “Our power reserves are less than ideal as it is—moving us again would be too much of a drain on—”

“Do it,” barked Dooku, injecting the command, Anakin could sense, with a panic-stricken amount of Force suggestion.

It wasn’t enough.

 

* * *

 

For a single instant, the black skies of Serenno flash brighter than daylight, a pure, searing white tinged at the edges with a bleeding red. It scrambles the sensors of any aircraft it touches, Republic and Confederate alike—the Sawsharks, temporarily deaf and blind, have no way of knowing what just happened or what consequences it carries.

Rookie One, at the controls of the LAAT she was rated to fly only a month ago, is on the far side of Stratum Apolune, along with her wingmates. Were she just a few miles east of her current flight path, her sensors, too, would be overwhelmed. As it is, she can see everything.

For her, the light isn’t an amorphous flare but a solid streak across the sky. In an eyeblink, before she has time to process what’s going on, it’s traversed the clouds and slammed into one of the platforms on the outskirts of the city.

The platform disappears.

Not “falls apart.” Not “Is ripped in two.” It simply isn’t there anymore.

Its mates, still connected to it by scaffolding and cables, are in tatters, charred black and ablaze with flame. Structures still stand on the sides that were furthest from the blast, but those that were closest to the vanished platform have been reduced to ash. Two of the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s cargo shuttles no longer register on Rookie One’s sensors—they, it would seem, were too close to the blast.

Time seems not to exist in the midst of the immediate aftershocks, but eventually, Rookie One becomes conscious that at least ten seconds have passed with no communications from anyone regarding what just happened. Surely Commander Skywalker should be the one to say what’s going on, or Sawshark Leader—but their lines are mute, and though Rookie One is only nineteen years old and barely out of flight school and at this moment is shaking so badly she fears she’s going to crash her gunship into the palace, she knows she’s a member of Typhoon Division and she has a job to do.

Checking to make sure she’s still connected to the general channel, she opens her mouth only for no sound to come out. Coughs once, a horrible strangled noise, to open up her throat. Tries again.

“Attention—oh gods. Attention all Republic units. Stratum Apolune has been hit by a Lancer projectile.”


	47. Vantage Points

“They’re going to get away.” 

The words left Saani Oruko’s mouth tinged with annoyance—as she stood in the center of the  _ Lancer  _ station’s bridge, her eyes remained locked on the view outside the window. She didn’t dare look at her commanding officer, lest the telltale glare of  _ I told you so  _ land her in trouble. 

“Get away to where?” came the reply—without looking, Saani could tell that Captain Nevenar was standing with his head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. “We’re in hyperspace”—and indeed they were, the mesmerizing patterns of swirling blue danced in Saani’s vision as she kept her gaze focused out the viewport—“they’ve got nowhere to run to.” 

“They could come up here,” she replied, gesturing with one hand to indicate the command bridge. “Kenobi probably wants this back.” In her other hand she held a metal cylinder aloft—the lightsaber’s grip seemed to pulse with a dangerous energy, its activation switch practically urging Saani’s thumb to stay away. 

“Put that down!” the captain snapped. This finally prompted Saani to turn and face him; eyes narrowing, she gingerly placed the Jedi weapon on a nearby console. “I want it in perfect condition when I present it to Maul and Valis.” 

“ _ Admiral  _ Valis,” Saani corrected him under her breath. 

“Besides,” Captain Nevenar continued, “Kenobi and his rescue party are not your concern. I believe I tasked you with readying the cannon. Is it loaded?” 

Saani bit the inside of her lip. The captain was right, he had asked her to have the clones load the  _ Lancer _ ’s main weapon. “No,” she replied. “Safety protocols recommend against traveling through hyperspace with the weapon armed.” 

Nevenar cleared his throat. “The Archon asked for a grand entrance. That means firing almost as soon as we arrive in system.” 

“The station’s safety protocols come directly from Sluis Van Shipyards,” Saani countered, taking a step toward Nevenar and shaking her head. “I think Archon Threll would want—”

“I didn’t ask you what you thought,” the captain interrupted. “And I  _ certainly  _ didn’t ask you to speculate on what the Archon might think. Have the crew load the cannon. Now.” 

Without uttering a word, Saani turned to a command console and keyed in the order. Several decks below, she knew, clones would be loading a live Javelin warhead into the firing mechanism of the  _ Lancer _ ’s main cannon. One wrong move, one excessively heavy jostle as the station dropped out of hyperspace, and the warhead could prematurely detonate—the station would rip itself apart from the inside, just as the last  _ Lancer  _ had. 

Several minutes later, as starlines became stars, Saani held her breath. 

The drop into realspace came and went without incident. Outside the viewport, the Confederacy’s fleet hung in the air. The ringed giant of Aurora served as a backdrop to the strangely peaceful engagement—no enemy ships appeared to be in orbit, and no Confederate ships seemed to be shooting at anything. 

In the center of it all, there was a sight that made Saani’s heart leap into her throat. 

“The  _ Charybdis,”  _ she whispered. Then, louder: “Was the admiral supposed to be here?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Nevenar grumbled. He turned to a clone whose attention was buried in a control console. “Do we have a targeting lock on the city?” 

“Acquiring, sir,” came the detached reply. Then, seconds later, the same voice spoke from a different spot on the bridge. 

“Captain, Kenobi and the other intruders have fled the station.” 

Saani gritted her teeth and swore under her breath—her mood soured further when she looked at Captain Nevenar, who seemed entirely unfazed by the news. 

“Very well. Have the point defense cannons shoot them down. If that fails, it doesn’t matter.”

A burst of anger flared up in Saani’s chest. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ ?” she snapped. She stormed across the bridge, stopping inches away from her commanding officer and locking eyes with him. “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what Lord Maul will do to us when he realizes we let Kenobi get away?” 

“I answer to the Archon, not to Maul,” Nevenar spat. “Besides, we aren’t here to capture Jedi.” Turning to face the clone at the targeting console, Nevenar spoke again, impatience woven into his voice. “Do we have a damned targeting lock on Stratum Apolune?” 

“We do now, sir.” 

A twisted grin crept up the captain’s face; his gaze turned slowly back to meet Saani’s. “ _ This  _ is why we are here.” He spun on a heel, clasped his hands behind his back, and marched toward the viewport until his nose was practically pressed against the transparisteel. “Fire!” 

The sound of shearing metal, crackling energy, and rolling thunder tore across the auditory simulator. 

 

* * *

 

The bridge of the  _ Charybdis  _ felt strangely empty—only three people occupied the space, none of them clones. All but one of the control consoles sat empty; Rama had positioned herself at the helm, and Valis stood just behind her command chair. 

Maul had taken up old habits and was pacing in front of the window—if Valis stared hard enough, she could make out the track of scuff marks that had once been polished out of the floor. 

“Would you  _ please  _ stop that?” she asked. 

He didn’t, instead turning his head to face her as he continued the back and forth. “I’ll stop when something happens. Look at this.” He swept a hand across the window, indicating the Confederate fleet. “This isn’t a battle. It’s a waiting game—and I don’t even know what we’re waiting for.” 

As if in answer, a massive object emerged from hyperspace. The auditory simulator boomed with a warbling bass, and the viewport filled with the elegant ring of a  _ Lancer  _ orbital bombardment station. 

Valis drew an involuntary gasp of air into her mouth. This was a problem—and at the moment, she had no idea how to handle it. 

“Get Threll on the line!” Maul’s voice crackled with anger. This, it seemed, had been enough to halt his pacing. As Rama’s hands moved across the command console, Valis played out the possible interaction between the Zabrak and Sluissi in her head. Watching the warlord dress down Archon Threll would certainly be satisfying—but she had to admit it was the last thing they needed right now.

“Wait,” she said, stepping between Maul and Rama. “I talk to her.” She glared at the Zabrak. “Not you.” 

Maul’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded and stepped aside. As the blue-tinted form of Psoriss Threll materialized before her, Valis straightened her posture.  

“Madame Archon,” she began, bowing slightly and forcing herself not to sneer, “I see you’ve brought a new weapon into the battle.”

“ _ Indeed _ ,” Threll replied, her scales rippling down her back as her serpentine form swayed in the holocamera. “ _ The Executor asked for a grand entrance. We’re going to give him one _ .” 

Valis bit her tongue. “I thought we discussed the value of Dooku as a political prisoner. Obliterating Stratum Apolune from orbit makes capturing him impossible.” 

“ _ Perhaps there is a better way, _ ” Threll said. “ _ Just think. Is it not equally valuable to demonstrate this weapon’s ability? To assassinate a world’s leader while we sit safely in orbit . . . this will strike fear into the heart of the Republic.” _

“Capturing Dooku leaves us with far more options—”

_ “I disagree. We will use the  _ Lancer _ , Valis.”  _ With that, the image of the Archon dissolved into a cascade of photons. 

“Did she just . . . hang up on us?” Rama asked.

Ignoring her executive officer’s question, Valis turned to face Maul. “Well, that’s what else the Archon was hiding.” 

The Zabrak bared his teeth. “We have to stop her before—” 

The sound of shearing metal, crackling energy, and rolling thunder tore across the auditory simulator. 

Spinning to fully face the viewport, Valis looked on as an object streaked through space toward the moon of Serenno, leaving a glowing trail in its wake. 

“As I was saying,” Maul growled. “We have to stop her.” 

Valis’ eyes followed the glowing trail that laced through space—she could just make out the burst of fire as the warhead pierced Serenno’s atmosphere. She inhaled slowly, letting the breath escape back out her nose as she shook her head. A strange sense of confidence washed over her. “No, Maul. No we don’t.” 

“Oh?” The Zabrak cocked his head to one side as he spoke the word, narrowing his eyes at Valis. “What do you suggest, then?” 

“Patience.” 

Valis rarely heard the Zabrak laugh—when he did, it was more akin to the snarl of a feral dog. That sound left Maul’s mouth before he echoed her statement. 

“Patience?” He shook his head. “The dark side demands action, and yet you stand here and speak the words of a  _ Jedi _ .” A tremble entered Maul’s voice as he spoke the final word; hand rising, he pointed a gloved finger at Valis. 

“Not a Jedi,” she replied. “A strategist. A tactician.” When Maul said nothing, she continued. “The  _ Lancer  _ fires every fifteen minutes. That’s how long it takes to load a new projectile and recharge the firing coils.” 

“Four shots an hour,” Maul said with a nod. “At that rate, Threll will obliterate the whole city by the end of the day.” 

Valis couldn’t help but grin. “No she won’t.” Now it was her doing the pacing—as Maul stood frozen in place, she walked and talked. “The  _ Lancer  _ was designed to hit terrestrial targets with great precision. Dense urban centers, military installations, that sort of thing. Stratum Apolune is . . . different. 

“For one, it’s much smaller than the typical  _ Lancer  _ target. It’s also full of gaps—space between each city platform that the  _ Lancer  _ targeting computer can’t account for. But without a doubt, the largest issue”—she paused, turning to face Maul and gesturing with open hands—”is that the city is mobile.” 

Realization seemed to dawn in Maul’s eyes. “You think the shots will miss?” 

She nodded. “Certainly not all of them. But enough will. Threll won’t destroy the city today. Left to her own devices, I doubt she could even do it by the end of the week. That’s where we come in.

“We can’t undermine her. We can’t directly oppose a board member—at least not yet. We  _ can _ , however, disagree. The Archon said it herself. Let her make her orbital strikes for now. After several hours, it will become clear that this plan of bombardment is ineffective. That’s when we swoop in with a ground team to capture Dooku. It’s not a betrayal; it’s merely a disagreement on how to best accomplish the mission. Surely Mekosk will see that.” 

Valis slowed her pacing and swept her gaze across the bridge—much to her annoyance, Maul wasn’t looking at her anymore. Instead he stared out the bridge viewport, one hand clenched into an impossibly tight fist. 

“Maul, are you even listening to me?”   

The single word he whispered back wasn’t an answer—and yet, at the same time, it was as close to one as Valis needed. 

“Kenobi.” 

She moved quickly to stand beside the Zabrak. “You can sense him?” 

“He escaped the  _ Lancer, _ ” Maul growled—his eyes remained glued to the viewport. “If he lands in the city . . . he could die by the orbital bombardment before I have the chance to kill him myself.” 

The same strange sense of confidence washed over Valis once again—the dark side, she realized, was speaking to her. Somehow she  _ knew  _ that what she was about to say was true. “He won’t.” Like her teacher, Valis’ gaze remained locked to the view outside the window. “The Force is with him, as it is with us. Our paths will cross before the day is done.”

Maul’s gaze broke from the viewport as his amber eyes turned to her. The certainty Valis felt through the dark side now radiated from Maul. He nodded. “And Jedi blood will be spilled.”

 

* * *

 

Darts of red energy rebounded off the blade of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s borrowed lightsaber—though his attention was pulled in several different directions, he could just make out one of the reflected blaster bolts piercing the body armor of a clone trooper.   

Beside him, Padmé snapped off several bursts of fire with her blaster rifle—the pair were backed up against a wall, providing cover as Liz and Tyyria scrambled into the makeshift airlock which connected the  _ Spice Dancer  _ to the battle station. 

Another blaster bolt sizzled against Obi-Wan’s blade, deflecting uselessly into a pile of boxes in one corner of the room. “Padmé,” he shouted, “go! Get on board!” 

“Absolutely not,” she yelled back, ducking as a blaster shot zinged past her and slammed into the wall. “The point of this stupid trip was to get you off the station; I’m not leaving until you’re on board my ship.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Obi-Wan snapped off the lightsaber. Stretching out his free hand, he gave a mental tug to a stack of shelving beside the storage room’s door. The wire rack shelving creaked and groaned before collapsing to one side, coming to rest in place as a sort of makeshift door barricade. 

Now convinced that Padmé wouldn’t get shot if he left her side, Obi-Wan turned and dove into the hole carved in the wall. His stomach lurched as he instantly transitioned to microgravity—he brushed a hand against the plastoid docking tube wall in a somewhat successful attempt to orient himself.  When a moment had passed and he was sure he wouldn’t vomit, Obi-Wan shoved off the wall and floated to the other end of the tube. 

Gravity took over once again as he reached the docking tube’s edge, threatening to pull him back into the flexible tunnel—fortunately, Tyyria stood ready to snatch his hand and haul him up to the floor of the  _ Spice Dancer _ ’s galley.  

Rising to his feet, Obi-Wan stared down into the hole in the floor. His head swirled as he watched Padmé—who was also standing on a floor, yet somehow angled ninety degrees away from him—climb into the docking tube and float up— _ or is it sideways? _ —toward him and Tyyria. 

Moments later, it was Padmé who was being hauled into the  _ Dancer _ ’s galley—as she scrambled into a standing position and darted aft toward the cockpit ladder, Obi-Wan and Tyyria slammed the docking tube hatch shut. Glancing at his fellow Jedi, Obi-Wan extended the hand containing the borrowed lightsaber. “I believe this is yours.” 

Somewhat gingerly, the Twi’lek plucked the weapon from Obi-Wan’s outstretched hand—the moment she was holding it, Obi-Wan spun on a heel and bolted for the cockpit. 

As his head poked up into the  _ Dancer _ ’s command deck, Obi-Wan could just make out Padmé’s hands flying across the controls. An urge floated across his mind—the distinct sense that he should hold on to something—and as the ship lurched he gripped the ladder as tightly as he could. 

“We’re clear!” Padmé said. “I think I tore the docking tube, though.” 

“Well,” Obi-Wan began as he hauled himself fully into the cockpit, “it was about time  _ something  _ on this ship broke again.” Moving toward the forward viewport, he lowered himself into the co-pilot’s chair—then, thinking better of it, he slid aside into one of the passenger seats.

“That’s what I thought, Kenobi,” Liz said, her vocabulator buzzing in an imitation chuckle as she took the newly vacated seat. A nearly inaudible mechanical click sounded as the droid began to speak again. “Miss Padmé, we are taking fire from the station’s array of laser cannons.” 

“Angle the deflector shields,” Padmé snapped, yanking the ship’s control yoke hard in one direction and sending the  _ Dancer  _ into a tight spin. “We can tank a few hits until we get a good approach for landing.” 

“Might want to warm up the  _ Dancer _ ’s weapons,” Obi-Wan said, reaching down to tighten his seat restraints. “Who knows what’s waiting in the atmosphere for us.” As images of battle flashed across his mind, it occurred to the general that he was once again unarmed. He leaned forward and ran a hand along the underside of the  _ Dancer _ ’s control console, stopping when his fingers hit cold metal. 

“One thing at a time, Obi-Wan,” Padmé said—as she spoke, she swayed the controls back and forth in an apparent attempt to weave the ship between cannon fire. The  _ Dancer  _ leveled off, and she glanced sideways at Obi-Wan—their eyes met as he extracted a glinting metal cylinder from beneath the control console. 

“Where the hell did  _ that  _ come from?” Padmé asked, her eyes widening as Obi-Wan clipped the weapon to his belt. 

“Anakin and I built it. It’s a . . . backup. Just in case we ever needed it.” 

Padmé rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the forward viewport. “Next time you want to smuggle a lightsaber on my ship, just ask me first.” 

Warning lights flashed and the ship rocked as another volley of laser fire impacted behind the cockpit—moments later, static escaped Liz’s vocabulator. 

“We’ve reached minimum safe distance from the Lancer. Plotting a landing vector now.” The droid’s metal digits poked at the control console—as her thumb depressed a particularly prominent button, Obi-Wan was hit with a splitting headache. 

The sound of shearing metal, crackling energy, and rolling thunder tore across the auditory simulator. 

Dread filled the Jedi’s heart—a quick glance at Tyyria, who had settled into the passenger seat opposite Obi-Wan—revealed that she was feeling the same. In an answer to their unspoken worry, a trail of energy seemed to slice across the sky. 

“They fired it.” 

It was Padmé who spoke first, barely above a whisper. Obi-Wan glanced at the pilot—she seemed detached, as if muscle memory alone steered the  _ Dancer  _ now. Time at once slowed and seemed to fly by, as if the ship which carried them was suspended outside of it. It was the pain that yanked Obi-Wan back to reality—he  _ felt  _ more than sensed the death of dozens of Serennan citizens as the Lancer’s projectile struck its target.  

Spinning in his seat and reaching for the  _ Dancer _ ’s comm controls, Obi-Wan keyed up Anakin’s personal frequency. Liz, still co-piloting the ship, moved to bat his hand away—as the droid’s gaze fell to the comm display, her arm seemed to freeze and she lowered it slowly into her lap. Obi-Wan’s eyes met hers; they shifted from red to blue, and the droid nodded slowly. 

“ _ Spice Dancer  _ to Anakin Skywalker. Come in, Skywalker.” 

At first there was nothing but the hiss of static. Though Obi-Wan wanted to rationalize it as interference, or some sort of equipment failure, deep down he couldn’t help but be afraid that Anakin had been in the blast zone.  _ He couldn’t have been _ , his mind argued back.  _ You would have felt—  _

“ _ Skywalker here. Obi-Wan, please tell me that’s you.”  _

Relief cascaded over the Jedi Master. He wanted to ask about ten different questions at once—limiting himself to the most important, he asked, “Has the palace been hit?”

“ _ No, it got one of the bigger platforms on the outskirts. We think some civilians got caught in blast—well, I mean, we  _ know _ , Qui-Gon and I can sense— _ ”

“Is the Count alive?” Obi-Wan interrupted, cutting across the punch-drunk rambling with what he hoped was the right degree of firmness.

For a moment, Anakin simply let out a low breath. “ _ Yeah, he and Lorian and Jesmyn are all okay. Palace didn’t get a scratch. But we’ve got what’s left of some clone squads making their way through the streets, and Karin and the others have got their hands full in the sky. And I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re short a Star Destroyer. _ ”

In the chaos of the explosion, Obi-Wan in fact hadn’t noticed, but sure enough, the  _ Coelacanth _ was nowhere on the  _ Dancer _ ’s sensors. As Padmé swore softly, Obi-Wan gripped the control console tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Well,” he managed, after a moment’s hesitation, “you’re all alive. That’s the important thing. We’re on our way, and I’m bringing help. Do you have a recommended landing location once we break atmosphere?”

“ _ As close to the palace as you can. We need you up here yesterday. _ ”

“Understood.” As the conversation lulled, Obi-Wan once again felt an ache deep in the hollow of his chest—the weight of the dozens dead below, and the knowledge that they were most likely not the last. “Anakin, I—I’m sorry. I failed.”

“ _ We can pass blame around later, master. Right now we just really need General Kenobi back. _ ”

Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan called upon the Force and let it wash through him. The panic, the grief, the dread he was experiencing didn’t vanish, but they faded as an energy larger than himself permeated his senses.  _ You’ll have time for sorrow when this is over. _

“Well,” he said aloud, opening his eyes, “you’re about to have him. Padmé?” When she shot him a grim, silent nod, he told her, “Patch us into the general Typhoon Division channel. Time to restore the chain of command.”

 

* * *

 

_**ARCHIVES OF THE CONFEDERACY: E1M1 "JAVELIN" ORBITAL STRIKE MISSILE** _

Developed as a joint venture by the weapons laboratory of Czerka Arms Corporation and the shipyards at Sluis Van, the E1M1 Orbital Strike Missile (codename: “Javelin”) serves as the primary ammunition for the main gun of the  _ Lancer  _ Precision Orbital Bombardment Station. 

The use of the term “missile” in the ammunition’s name is technically incorrect—the projectile is not a self-propelled warhead. Rather, it is constructed out of a ferromagnetic shell which is accelerated to firing speed by a massive coilgun contained within the  _ Lancer _ . The shell contains several components necessary to a successful precision orbital bombardment. A high-flux electrostatic shield generator protects the projectile from being slowed or captured by a tractor beam, and an advanced accelerometer and gyrometer sensor suite assists in the timing the warhead’s detonation—assuring it explodes only after the projectile has buried itself below ground. 

The explosive itself is primarily designed to generate a large shockwave, ideal for collapsing buildings and other urban structures. In the event that the projectile is somehow intercepted in midair en route to its target, a smaller explosive charge turns the warhead into an oversized grenade, shattering the ferromagnetic shell and discharging the electrostatic shield.  


	48. Back Together

The embrace between master and apprentice lasted a long time.

When Obi-Wan finally broke away to get a look at Anakin, he saw what his senses had already confirmed—his student was overwhelmed, as was everyone in the war room. His eyes were red-rimmed and dim, as though he hadn’t slept for days, and his skin was sallow, his face tightened by his clenched jaw. Nevertheless, the boy managed a grin as he pressed a metal code cylinder into the general’s hand. “I am  _ begging  _ you to take this back.”

Qui-Gon took in the new arrivals with a genuine laugh, one that sounded relieved at its own existence. “Congratulations on rescuing the general. You did a sight better at it than I did.”

With a dismissive snort, Padmé waved her hand. “We’d done it before.”

“Hey,” Anakin asked, his brow furrowing as he gave his wife a hug, “where’s Liz?”

Padmé rolled her eyes. “Flying in a holding pattern in case we need evac, not that she was very cooperative when I asked. The stress is getting to her.”

“It’s just as well,” sighed Obi-Wan, throwing a glance out the war room’s windows as if he’d see the droid doing laps around the city. “The  _ Dancer _ does no one any good grounded on a landing platform, and in space she’d just hit the abundance of capital ships above us. Which reminds me.”

Sobering, he looked at the Arkanian droidsmith he’d met at a party that already seemed had happened weeks ago. “Stratum Apolune is moving, yes?”

Jesmyn shook their head, the movement stiff and mechanical. “It would be slow suicide. The platforms only have enough power to make occasional movements and avoid slow-moving storm systems. The burn we made to get us on the night side of the moon drained us enough as it is—if we lose power, we can’t stay afloat. As simple as that.”

“Honey,” Padmé interrupted, a glower Obi-Wan was only too familiar with coming over her face, “there’s a  _ quick _ suicide aiming at us right now. That thing’s cannon can fire once every fifteen minutes. It’s already been, what, five since it hit the city? And it was only luck that it didn’t get somewhere more populated.”

A queer, bitter smile formed on Jesmyn’s pale face. “General Kenobi, I don’t know who this is, but I assure you I know the limits of Stratum Apolune a bit better than she—”

“Well, introductions are probably in order, then,” said a voice hastily from behind Obi-Wan. Stepping forward, her lavender skin flushing a bit, Tyyria Nox directed a small bow toward the Serennans. “I’m Tyyria Nox, Jedi Scholar. This is Padmé Amidala, friend of General Kenobi’s and Anakin Skywalker’s.” Swallowing visibly, she looked past Jesmyn. “And I presume I have the honor of addressing Count Dooku and Viscount Lorian?”

Whether it was unshakable poise or impeccable manners, when Dooku spoke it was not the voice of someone who’d just watched part of his city get shot down from above. “The honor is mine, Madam Nox. And this”—he inclined his head toward the Arkanian—“is Jesmyn, erstwhile palace droidsmith.”

_ I suppose I’ll ask about  _ that _ later, _ Obi-Wan shot to Anakin and Qui-Gon, the latter of whom shook her head quietly.

“Count Dooku,” he began out loud, looking the old man in the eye, “as a representative of the Republic and as a Jedi I can’t begin to tell you how sorry—”

“We’ll have time for sorrows later, General Kenobi,” interrupted the count, silently squeezing Lorian’s hand as he did so. “Right now, as Ms. Amidala has put it, we have less than ten minutes to prevent a fresh tragedy. Palace security forces, along with . . . unforeseen reinforcements”—a strange ugliness entered his voice at this phrase, and Obi-Wan saw him shoot a withering glance at Jesmyn, who studiously avoided looking at him—“are taking care of the Confederate forces currently on the ground. Your fighters patrol the skies, along with what your Star Destroyer could spare. They can be dealt with. What  _ cannot _ be dealt with”—he jabbed his index finger at a looming red barrel floating above the holoprojector—“is that.”

Nodding, Obi-Wan tried to absorb as much as he could from the two projections—one of Stratum Apolune and one of the space above Serenno. “The fact that they only hit an outer platform would lead me to believe that their targeting is only so precise. Penetrating deeper into the night side of the moon may confuse it further.”

“And those projectiles are designed to hit cities that are built on the ground,” said Anakin, eyes fixed on the  _ Lancer _ as it hung idly in space. “Any amount of drift we can make right before the missile is launched means it has a good chance of missing us. It wouldn’t have to be a big burn, just a nudge.”

Clearing his throat, Lorian spoke up, to the surprise of everyone. “And we’re running out of other options very quickly. Jesmyn, you already jettisoned most if not all of the nonessential platforms. Any more that we leave floating behind us will have people aboard.”

Nodding, Obi-Wan turned back to the Count. “We’ll conserve as much fuel as possible. Move the city in short bursts in the window just before the cannon fires.”

Casting his eyes down to the projection of Stratum Apolune, Dooku simply watched for several long moments, as if his eyes were somehow wandering across every inhabitant and weighing the cost. Finally, he looked at Obi-Wan and said, “Very well, General Kenobi.”

“I’m sure the fuel reserves will hold out until Cody gets here with help,” Anakin offered.

“Surety is the enemy, young Skywalker,” replied Dooku, gaze snapping toward Obi-Wan’s apprentice with withering suddenness. “We do this because it is the only option, not because your division is guaranteed to bring about miracles.”

And with that, it seemed, the Count had reached his breaking point, at least for the moment. Wordlessly, he turned and strode for the door, which swept open silently to let him through. Lorian lingered for a few moments, watching the holoprojector and gnawing at his lip; then he, too, departed, following his husband.

“Well,” said Padmé, after the door had safely fallen shut once more. “He seems nice.”

 

* * *

 

After Jesmyn, too, had left the room, ostensibly to get a cup of caf, Qui-Gon strolled over to Obi-Wan and pulled him into a hug. “You couldn’t bring the ship back?” Anakin heard her say.

With a snort of laughter, Obi-Wan stepped back from the embrace and rolled his eyes. “You can bill me. Or, if we get out of this on top, you can search the  _ Lancer _ ; it was still attached to the hull when we jumped to this system, as far as I know.”

Turning to Tyyria and Padmé, Anakin said, “Um, well, this is Serenno. It was a lot prettier when we got here, I promise.”

“You do have a habit of breaking things,” his wife shot back, looking out the window at the night sky, peppered with occasional laser blasts. Looking at Tyyria, she added, “We’re usually a bit better at fixing them, though.”

Tyyria looked as though she didn’t quite know what to say. Finally, she managed, “Well, if nothing else it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Anakin. Your reputation precedes you.”

“I’ll hope that’s a good thing,” he replied. The banter felt stale, hanging in the air uncomfortably. Seeing Obi-Wan and Padmé face-to-face had been a blessed relief, but that lightness was already starting to fade, crushed by the image of another projectile slamming into the palace. Before he could stop himself, Anakin flicked a glance down at the timer running at the edge of the holoprojector.  _ Eight minutes twenty-one seconds. _

A thought flitted through his numb dread, and Anakin looked at Padmé with sudden curiosity. “Say, not that I’m unhappy with the outcome, but how did you know the crustbuster was even a thing? Much less operational.”

Padmé squirmed, an action he’d rarely seen her perform. “It’s a long story.”

“We do have eight minutes,” Obi-Wan noted, breaking away from his conversation with Qui-Gon. “And Anakin and Jesmyn seem to have done a good job at holding down the fort in my absence, so I don’t have any pressing orders to give to the troops at the moment.”

“Yes, Padmé, we’ve all basically just been sitting here and waiting,” Qui-Gon chimed in, rolling stiff shoulders as if to emphasize the point. “ _ You _ have an exciting tale of adventure, I’m sure.”

Watching his wife’s expression, Anakin frowned. It wasn’t just false modesty or exhaustion—she genuinely,  _ really _ did not want to tell them how she’d come by that information. Reaching out to probe her feelings, he could feel her shutting down, doing her best to summon some vicious rejoinder that would shut everyone up.

“Well, really, it was sheer good luck.”

His eyes darted toward Tyyria in surprise. The Twi’lek had stepped forward and spoken in a loud voice to get everyone’s attention; Padmé, Anakin noticed before she briefly cast her eyes downward, looked as surprised as the rest of them.

“I’ve been conducting an investigation into agro-worlds for the Archives,” she noted, flushing a little as everyone looked at her. “Telos IV was one of them. It’s not the most exciting planet, so I tried to make my research as interesting as possible by playing spy. Digging into politicians’ pasts, looking through local scandals, that sort of thing.” Warming to the subject, the scholar’s voice took on a more confident tone. “I eventually ended up coming across a suspicious series of transactions. I followed it, and bam. A  _ Lancer _ platform.” She gave a modest smile. “Just good homework and an overactive imagination, I suppose.”

Something was off, Anakin thought. True, he’d never met Tyyria Nox before, so he couldn’t read her the way he could Padmé or Obi-Wan or even Qui-Gon, but beneath her exterior he felt . . .  _ It’s like she’s  _ nervous _. That we won’t buy her story. _

“Well, I appreciate the virtues of a good librarian, so brava on that front,” drawled Qui-Gon, smiling but also looking a bit puzzled. “But how on earth did you bring Padmé into this? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t think you two had met?”

There was a moment of silence that lasted perhaps a touch too long before Tyyria replied, “Well, I’m sure you all know how big a shortage of Knights there’s been with the war on. I needed someone to contact General Kenobi, someone who knew him and Anakin and was in a position to actually  _ do _ something about this. And . . . well, Mace Windu,” she continued, to general surprise, “said he knew Anakin Skywalker’s wife and Obi-Wan Kenobi’s friend and that she might be able to help. So I reached out to Padmé and we scrambled to the rescue.”

Padmé nodded quickly. “I was surprised to have another Jedi land in my lap, but it gave me an excuse to join in all this . . . fun.” She threw her arm out wide to encompass the view out the window.

Just as Anakin opened his mouth to ask why Tyyria hadn’t just brought Mace Windu along, a blinding flash of light flared in front of the window, followed by a roar of shattered metal and burning fuel. The wreckage of a tri-fighter fell to the base of the palace in molten ribbons as a Z-95 Headhunter shot through the dissipating fireball, too fast for Anakin to see who was piloting it.

_ Okay,  _ he thought,  _ that does it. Storytime is over until we get out of this. _

Obi-Wan seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “We’d best get back to business,” he said, unconsciously lowering his hand to the lightsaber at his belt—the backup one from the  _ Dancer _ , Anakin saw. “Qui-Gon, could you go fetch Jesmyn? We’ll need them to move the platforms when the time comes.”

“What about Dooku and Lorian?” she asked, bringing her cane to the ready.

Grimacing as he considered, Obi-Wan finally said, “No need to bring them back here until they’re ready. It’s probably best to conduct the operation ourselves while we can, anyway.”

With a nod, Qui-Gon headed for the door, moving as fast as her limp would allow.

Stepping around Anakin, Padmé locked eyes with Obi-Wan. “Consider me a conscript, Kenobi. What can I do?”

“To be honest, I’d just as soon you stayed here,” he replied. When she started to protest, Anakin’s master raised his hands. “Having you die to a clone squad out there would be a waste. You’re used to handling security for politicians. If the ground troops make it to the palace, I want the absolute best guarding Dooku and Lorian. You’re that.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she shot back, but to Anakin’s ears she sounded as if she were trying very hard not to be pleased.

Looking over her shoulder to Anakin and Tyyria, Obi-Wan said, “As for you two, if the clones get past whatever droid monstrosities Jesmyn has running out there, I’d really prefer to have a Jedi or two to meet them. I say we take it in shifts—Tyyria, then Anakin rotating in to replace Tyyria, and so on. Anakin will be in charge when I’m gone—if things get overwhelming down there and he and I are both gone at once, Qui-Gon will take over.”

Anakin felt alarm shoot down the back of his neck as though his brain stem had spat electricity. “Hang on, now, we just got you  _ back _ . We need you to—”

“Anakin.” The interruption was not loud, but the firmness in it made the young Jedi fall silent all the same.

Obi-Wan looked at him with a strange mixture of love and regret. “I’m sorry I had to leave you to handle this. And you didn’t do perfectly, because no one can. But you managed it as well as you could, and I would trust you to do it again.”

Anakin simply cast his eyes down toward his boots, feeling his face redden.

“At any rate,” Obi-Wan continued in a louder voice, “hopefully it won’t come to that point. That said, if we’re going to get by with one Jedi fighting at a time down there, we’re going to have to spread one lightsaber awfully thin.”

“About that,” Padmé broke in. A characteristic vengeful smirk was on her face, and when Anakin reached out to touch her emotions her earlier lockdown was gone. She was feeling the kind of joy that usually only came to her when she was about to do something violent.

When Obi-Wan raised a questioning eyebrow, she continued, “Before Liz took off again, I had her empty the  _ Dancer _ ’s weapon locker. If you’d be so kind as to walk over to the next room, General, I think there are some things in there you might find useful.”

In spite of everything, her enthusiasm was infectious. Anakin found himself breaking into his first genuine grin in what must have been days. “What she doesn’t want you knowing is that she’s excited the clones have given her an excuse to pull those things out.”

“What can I say?” she asked with a shrug, eyes beaming as she returned her husband’s smile. “They’re not civilized, but they are effective.”


	49. Slow Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone.
> 
> We screwed up.
> 
> When we set out to write _The Shadow Within_ , we were excited to continue the story we’d begun in _The Looming Force_. We were also high off the experience of bringing that episode to a close, and, since a good chunk of it had ended up pretty differently from how we’d outlined it, we thought we’d take a more relaxed approach to planning _The Shadow Within_ ’s structure. We thought we could pull it off. We were wrong.
> 
> Our more undisciplined planning approach combined with the inherent pitfalls of serial storytelling has meant that we’ve spent much of the writing process for _The Shadow Within_ trying to undo our own mistakes—realizing too late that we were dragging sections out too long, making last-minute story fixes to correct problems we hadn’t predicted, and belatedly coming up with better versions of chapters that had already been published weeks ago. In essence, what you’ve been reading is a first draft—one plagued by many more problems than _The Looming Force_ ’s draft was. While there are certainly elements of _The Shadow Within_ that we’re proud of, the story we’ve been putting out in many ways hasn’t met our standards of quality.
> 
> We plan to spend the remainder of this episode’s third act giving you, the readers, the most satisfying conclusion we can under its current constraints. We’re also very excited for our version of Episode III, which we’ve been planning the longest of any of these episodes—we don’t intend to repeat the mistake we made here when it comes time to write the trilogy’s conclusion. That said, we also don’t want to leave a version of _The Shadow Within_ that we know to be inferior as the definitive version of the text.
> 
> All this to say that, once we’ve completed the trilogy in full, we’ll be going back to revise and publish a “Definitive Edition” with alterations that ensure it’s the best story it can be. There will be tweaks to _The Looming Force_ (and, probably, to Episode III), but the lion’s share of the work will go into _The Shadow Within_ —rewriting plot threads, restructuring the outline, spending more time with new characters, and tightening the pace. We hope with that version of the tale to present a story that both we and future readers will be satisfied by, one that serves as a fitting second chapter in the legend of Anakin Skywalker’s transformation into Darth Vader.
> 
> Thanks so much for continuing to stick with the story, growing pains aside. We look forward to finishing this first draft of _The Shadow Within_ and preparing to bring you the final act in the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker.

Fifteen minutes elapse, and the  _ Lancer _ fires again.

It’s the same as the last time—a sudden, all-encompassing flash of light that tears through the night sky, rending the darkness apart. The Sawsharks are better prepared this time, however—they’ve been keeping an eye on how much time they have left, and a few moments before the station fires they increase their cockpit polarization to maximum. Rather than rendering them completely blind and deaf, their view of the passing torpedo is like a glance at the sun at high noon, hastily redirected before it can truly do damage.

The projectile roars forward, tunneling relentlessly through the clouds, searching for the city it will reduce to ashes. As it breaks through the final bastion of condensed water, Stratum Apolune comes into view, its emergency lights just enough to render its silhouette visible against the night sky.

The torpedo makes its final push, propellant flaring as it shoots toward the nearest platform. Screaming, it closes faster, faster, the collision mere microseconds away—

And then, it misses.

Not by much. It passes within a bare few hundred yards of its target, the still-smoldering platform whose neighbor the last torpedo reduced to ash. But those few hundred yards are enough. Rather than striking metal, it plunges deeper downward, pushing itself toward crush depth.

The light of its passing is enough to illuminate the sky for some time.

 

* * *

 

Captain Nevenar’s anticipatory smirk slowly slid into a grimace.

Saani watched the transformation with no small amount of gratification, but kept her own smirk to herself. Aloud, she said, careful to keep her tone emotionless, “It appears they moved the city, sir.”

Lips twisting into a snarl, Nevenar locked eyes with her, as if daring her to break into a smile. “That’s your professional analysis?”

Keeping her gaze fixed on his waxy face, she replied smoothly, “Stratum Apolune conducted a major burn prior to our entering the system—it was a long distance from its usual position. That wasn’t a problem for our targeting computer for the first shot—all it had to do was target the largest artificial mass present in the moon’s atmosphere and fire, because the city was standing still again. But, if they were to adjust position just before we fired again . . .” She let her silence imply a shrug rather than performing the action outright. “It was a  _ near _ miss, sir.”

From across the bridge, an ensign spoke up. “Captain Nevenar, Archon Threll requests a report on the outcome of the second volley.”

The captain’s sickly skin looked very much as though it wanted to sweat but was having difficulty summoning up the liquid. Without looking at the ensign, he replied, “Very well. I will take it on my personal comm. Oruko,” he snapped, curling his lip at her, “the bridge is yours for the next few minutes.”

After the bridge doors had swept shut behind him, Saani cleared her throat, then fell silent. Wordlessly, she keyed in the order for the crew to begin loading a new projectile—Threll already hadn’t been in a waiting mood, and the XO doubted she would grow any less impatient once Nevenar had delivered the bad news.

_ Not that speed will do any good. All they’ll have to do is move out of the way fifteen minutes from . . . _

_ Ah. _

Finally, she allowed the smile to touch her lips. “Fire control?” she said aloud into her comm. “Belay that order.”

 

* * *

 

The ragged remains of the clone ground assault’s first wave had managed to down another mining unit, but Jesmyn, who’d returned to the war room, wasn’t sending out any more yet. “If we send them all out at once,” she’d told Obi-Wan, “and the platform they’re on gets shot down, that’s it.”

The good news, Obi-Wan thought, was that the Confederacy had no real reason to send more ground units if they were committed to shooting down the city from orbit. And while twenty clones weren’t exactly the easiest thing to deal with, they were absolutely the least of his worries right now.

Besides, the droids seemed to be doing a good job of keeping them away from the city center—they had a rudimentary enough intelligence to realize that charging the clones was no longer working, so instead they’d simply locked themselves in place across a narrow causeway, angling themselves to shield their joints and heads. The clones were pounding them with fire, but for now they were for all intents and purposes a wall.

“Suits me just fine,” said Tyyria. “I feel too ridiculous to go out there.”

Qui-Gon burst out laughing, and as Obi-Wan turned to look at his Twi’lek colleague he had to do his best to contain a snort as well. The grenade belt draped around her was designed for Padmé, who was a good head taller; the autopistol she’d holstered next to her lightsaber suited her better, but still looked like part of a costume.

“I’m sorry,” said Qui-Gon, “I really don’t mean to laugh. It’s just that . . . you certainly chose the right profession when you became a Scholar.”

Across the room, Anakin had finished strapping on his own grenade belt, along with a blaster carbine that he’d slung across his back. “I know we had a whole line-of-succession thing going,” he said, “but it might be better if I go out there with you when the time comes, Tyyria. Not that I don’t trust you,” he hastened to add, “I just need something to—”

With a rueful smile of her own, Tyyria held up her hands. “Trust me, I know I’m not exactly cut out for this. I welcome the help.”

Padmé’s voice spoke up through the intercom. “ _ You guys sure you don’t want a third? Dooku and his husband are just kinda sitting here looking out the window. And the palace guards don’t seem to really enjoy my being here. _ ”

“An order is an order, Padmé,” replied Obi-Wan. “You’re the one who signed up to be a conscript, remember.”

When only glaring silence sounded in reply, he sighed and let the mirth drain out of him. Now wasn’t the time to be distracted.

Two minutes were left on the timer that calmly counted down on the war room holoprojector. “At one minute,” said Jesmyn, their white hands moving back and forth above the table without actually touching anything, “I’ll warm the engines. At thirty seconds I’ll start the next burn.”

When it came, the burn rattled the floor enough that Qui-Gon leaned against her cane to keep from wobbling. Obi-Wan eased himself into a chair and peered through the window, his eyes searching for the white streak that would be coming for them within a few seconds. He knew the city was moving, but the view outside gave no indication of that fact—all was black.

_ Eight,  _ the timer flashed with a mild chime.  _ Seven. Six . . . _

Obi-Wan exhaled softly, calmly. Closed his eyes. Without seeing, he could feel the other Jedi in the room doing the same, steeling themselves for the possible moment of impact.

_ Five. Four. Three. Two. One. _

Nothing happened.

Obi-Wan was in the middle of a relieved sigh when he realized,  _ Wait. Nothing  _ happened _. _

The last shot, even though it had missed Stratum Apolune, had sent a shockwave through the platforms with its close pass anyway, and the afterglow from its light had lingered. As the general opened his eyes, he realized that the sky remained as dark as it had thirty seconds ago. And the only rumbling below him was caused by Stratum Apolune’s continued movement.

“Shit,” spat Anakin, hurrying over to the holoprojector. “They’re onto us.”

Jesmyn nodded, weary understanding in their eyes. “They know that we know about the minimum firing window. So now all they have to do is fire at random intervals.”

For a moment, all were silent. Then the droidsmith slammed their fist onto the table and swore, then swore even more loudly when they realized that doing so had increased the city’s speed.

“We can’t just keep continuously moving,” they said, hastily trying to undo the acceleration. “It would drain the power supply within an hour. And if that happens—”

The holoprojector shrieked a warning.

Without thinking, Obi-Wan dove over the table, tackling Anakin to the ground. A second later, a roar shook the palace and the windows flared white.

“ _ Report! _ ” the general bellowed over the aftermath, hastily scrambling backward and hoisting his apprentice to his feet—Anakin sheepishly brushed himself off with his flesh hand. “Are we all still here?”

The Sawsharks and their handful of rookie gunship pilots, sounding shaken, all sounded off. When they’d finished, Padmé swore. “ _ Dooku and Lorian are still here. Me too. _ ”

Qui-Gon had tumbled to the ground, and looked thoroughly embarrassed as Anakin helped her back up. “Was it a hit or not?”

Looking down at the table, Obi-Wan implored the Force to do something about the pounding in his chest. “It missed. But that was far closer than the last one.”

“And next time,” said Anakin grimly, his scar standing out against the white of his face, “they aren’t gonna shoot while we’re still moving.”

The fifteen-minute timer had cheerily resumed its countdown. Looking at it, Obi-Wan let out a long, shuddering breath. “Well, we have at least fifteen minutes.”

Bending over the comm unit, he instructed Padmé, “Get Dooku and Lorian up here. From now on I want to make sure we know where they are. Karin, what do the skies look like?”

“ _ Well, we’ve got some good news there, General. The backwash from that last missile caught the last couple of fighters we were chasing down. Skies are clear for now. _ ”

“Get those Y-wings Cody left us out of the jellyfish bloom and up into space. The least we can do is try to bloody this thing’s nose before it kills us all.”

Turning to Anakin and Tyyria, he sensed nothing but numb exhaustion and fear. His apprentice had hardly slept for days at this point—he was pale, bruises of purple under his eyes, face almost hollow. Tyyria had managed to adjust the grenade belt, but she still looked like nothing so much as a little girl playing dress-up.

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan said, “You’re in no fit state to be taking on twenty clones at once right now. Hang back until the mining droids are absolutely overwhelmed.”

His apprentice slowly nodded, without raising any objections. Tyyria did the same; without meaning to, Obi-Wan brushed up against her feelings: relief, mingled with guilt at what she perceived as cowardice.

_ It’s not cowardice, _ he thought, not reaching out to her directly but doing his best to spread reassurance through the Force.  _ No sense in your dying before you have to. _

Turning in a slow circle, Obi-Wan locked eyes with everyone in the room in turn. “We,” he told them grimly, “are going to figure out how to anticipate shots without relying on a countdown. And we have a deadline.”

 

* * *

 

Neither Dooku nor Lorian had said much to Padmé as she escorted them back to the war room, though the Viscount had made the best effort he could—exclaiming politely when Padmé explained how she knew Anakin, telling her he wished he could have met her under better circumstances. His husband had made no such attempts at pleasantries, though Padmé didn’t hold it against him.  _ Doubt I’d be in the mood for small talk either, if I were watching my city get taken apart piece by piece. _

Now, as Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, Anakin, Tyyria, and Jesmyn conferred in a corner, Padmé simply watched Dooku as he watched the battle. In the orbital projection, the pinpoint glows of starfighters and bombers were threading their way toward the  _ Lancer _ , dodging enemy fire as they went. On the ground, clone soldiers continued to pound away at the mining droids—it was impossible to tell from here how close they were getting to breaking through. LAAT gunships swung in slow orbits around the platforms, and the two AA turrets circled the palace. Their trajectories seemed aimless, purposeless.

Padmé sympathized. Anything happening down here couldn’t help but feel pointless in the face of what waited for them up above. It hung implacable in space, emitting the same even, blood-red glow, pointed steadily in their direction.

“Hey, Jesmyn,” she called, looking intently at the projection, “what kind of data is this thing displaying?”

The Arkanian broke away from the two Jedi, looking over at Padmé with an expression that seemed to say,  _ It’s not as though we’re getting anything useful done anyway. _ “At the moment? Just positional. Didn’t really have time to set up anything fancy—it’s mostly used to monitor incoming storm systems, not battles.”

“So it primarily looks at weather patterns?”

“Yes—air pressure, cloud formations, that sort of thing.”

“What about heat?”

Frowning, Jesmyn replied, “Yes, temperature too, but I don’t see how—”

“So we monitor heat emissions from the crustbuster. When they spike, we move the city.”

The Arkanian let out a scoffing, choked approximation of laughter. “Even with four Jedi in this room, we wouldn’t have the reaction time we need to start a burn and get the city out of the way. We’d have a window of a few seconds between that heat spike and the missile launch. It’s just not feasible.”

“What about the Sawsharks?” Obi-Wan asked. “The thing has to open its iris a good while before it fires. We could use them as spotters, have them tell us when that’s happened.”

“That’s . . . not a good idea.”

For a moment, Padmé didn’t quite register who’d raised this objection. Putting a damper on plans involving skilled piloting wasn’t something she’d expected to ever hear from Anakin.

He continued, though, tapping the fingers of his mechanical hand uneasily against the war room table. “The Sawsharks are the best, no question about that. But I’m worried about them getting blown up as it is, doing one bombing run on that thing. Having them hover around watching it  _ and _ avoid enemy fighters for . . . hours? Days?”

Padmé felt an ache in her chest watching the utterly crestfallen expression on her husband’s face. He looked as though he’d betrayed the pilots by even suggesting it—that they weren’t immortal, that some plans might be too difficult for them to pull off. It was in his nature to believe in the impossible. It was why she’d married him.

“I suppose just cutting and running is out of the question?” Qui-Gon asked, looking at Jesmyn. Her voice made it clear that she already knew the answer.

Shaking their head, the droidsmith said in a raspy voice, “It’s like I said earlier. With our current power output, we’d drain the city dry in under an hour. Even moving around as we are now is a risk.” They tapped at the hologram of the city—a few moments later, the steady hum beneath Padmé’s feet began to taper off as the platforms slowed. “Granted, that’s still an hour we didn’t have, but once it’s up, we’re all dead.”

“And there’s nothing we can do to fix it?”

“No.”

The single syllable was quiet enough almost to be inaudible. Nonetheless, the entire room fell silent in its aftermath.

Dooku’s hands had begun to shake. Not so you’d notice if you weren’t looking for it, but Padmé could see the minute tremors as the Count steadied himself against the table. He spoke to all of them, and none of them; his eyes were still on the  _ Lancer _ ’s hovering form.

“Stratum Apolune is a closed system,” he said. “Self-sustaining, self-sufficient. We rely on no outside power sources. It is what has allowed the cities of Serenno to exist.”

Nodding, Lorian spoke up in turn. “The power generators are designed to self-replenish. Make one long burst to avoid a storm, then spend months or years slowly regenerating what was lost. They were never meant to keep moving for so long.”

Obi-Wan looked up at Padmé, weariness hanging from his face. For the first time Padmé had known him, he looked old. “I’m sorry to have brought you here for nothing. Turning to Tyyria, he continued, “Both of you. If I’d been able to—”

“We’re not dead yet, Kenobi,” Padmé snapped back. “And Liz is on standby in the  _ Dancer _ , we can get out of here.”

“Oh yes, it’ll fit us well enough,” said Jesmyn, curling their lip in sneering contempt. “Forget the rest of the city. Little people.”

Padmé opened her mouth to retort that she hadn’t meant it that way, then cut herself off.  _ You sort of did. _

She’d faced death before. Had Abbadon had been the time she was surest of it, but it had been far from the  _ only _ time. But she’d faced it within the confines of the personal—her own death, or Obi-Wan’s, or Anakin’s. She just didn’t have the mental capacity to weigh the deaths of thousands upon thousands of people who she’d never met.

But Dooku, and Lorian, and Jesmyn—they did. And even if they were to escape on the  _ Dancer _ , they would never be able to leave that burden behind them.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply.

On some level, the droidsmith must have known she meant it. Rather than another retort, they simply turned back to the holoprojector.

“There has to be some way,” Anakin murmured, almost to himself. “Something that could pump more energy into the power system.”

Qui-Gon’s lips quirked into an exhausted ghost of a smile. “Well, Anakin, unless in addition to all the guns she brought Padmé is carrying a city’s worth of power in her pocket, I think we’re out of luck.”

“I thought Obi-Wan said there’s no such thing,” Padmé replied.

Running a hand through his beard, her friend gave a tired chuckle. “I may have to revise my opinion.  _ Bad _ luck certainly seems to be something we have in spades.”

_ Nothing to do but wait, then,  _ she thought, eyes trailing across all the different shades of red that dotted the hologram.  _ Wait for the clones on the ground to break through. Wait for the  _ Lancer _ to fire again. Wait for the city to run out of power. Wait for Republic reinforcements to show up. _

_ Wait for everything to die. _

 

* * *

 

Once again, Valis gazed out from the  _ Scimitar _ ’s cockpit at a looming world.

“It’s a pity Threll had to get smart,” she told Maul, who was calmly, wordlessly running through the startup sequence. “Or someone from her crew, anyway. If she’d just kept hammering away every fifteen minutes, it would have dragged things out longer. Made her more pliable.”

“No use talking about it now,” came the curt reply. “Are you ready?”

The admiral nodded. Brushed her hand against the lightsaber at her belt. “Make the call.”

A moment later, Threll’s voice hissed through the comm. “ _ Maul, what is it? _ ”

Clearing her throat, Valis leaned forward. “This is Admiral Valis  _ and _ Warlord Maul, Archon, ordering you to hold your fire.”

Icy silence reigned for a solid five seconds before the Archon replied, “ _ You’re insane. _ ”

“No,  _ you _ are making a titanic blunder. Dooku is worth far more alive than dead, as is Obi-Wan Kenobi. And at any rate, your last two shots have missed Stratum Apolune. One out of three isn’t the best average for a gunnery team. The  _ Charybdis _ is sending its own ground force to the city to capture them both alive. You are to suspend fire at once.”

As she hung up, she turned to look at Maul, whose gaze was focused on the orb below. “She won’t listen, of course.”

The Zabrak shook his head. “And she will know we’ve gone down to the moon ourselves.”

It was true—Valis didn’t hold Threll’s intelligence in high esteem, but she wasn’t  _ that _ stupid. “But she isn’t going to fire right on schedule,” she replied. “Not when she knows she has to keep Kenobi and the others guessing. And”—she shrugged—“as I said, she did miss her last two shots. Nevertheless, the sooner we’re out of there the better.”

Looking behind her into the rest of the ship, she sighed—there were no other passengers aboard. “I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider killing any units I try to bring with us.”

Maul evidently did not consider this answer worthy of a reply.

Shaking her head, Valis made a resigned  _ hmmph _ . “Just as well,” she replied. “We don’t want any wetworks deciding Threll outranks us.”

Turning her own gaze back to Serenno, she nodded. “Let’s do this, then.”

The  _ Scimitar _ shot from the  _ Charybdis _ ’ hangar. Glancing down at the sensors, Valis idly noted that a cluster of Z-95 Headhunters, along with some Y-wing bomber units, seemed to be heading for the  _ Lancer _ . “Ahh, wonderful,” she noted. “They should buy us some more time.”

None of the Republic’s ships broke off to go after the  _ Scimitar _ —even if they had realized who was aboard, Valis thought, a warlord and an admiral would have seemed like the last of their worries.

_ We’ll see about that. We’ll just see. _

 

* * *

 

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: GRENADE** _

“Grenade” is a generic term used to refer to a category of handheld explosive devices. The most basic of these is a fragmentation grenade. An explosive core contained in a metal shell, fragmentation grenades release a spray of shrapnel when detonated. Though inexpensive and sufficiently deadly against unarmored infantry, they are not common on the battlefield due to their otherwise limited utility. 

The most common battlefield grenade is the thermal detonator. In addition to expelling shrapnel, they release a massive wave of heat and energy which can vaporize organic life and cause significant damage to vehicular armor. An advanced version of the thermal detonator, the thermal imploder, compresses the atmosphere within its blast radius prior to detonation—this increases the force of the explosion. 

Specialty grenades are also available throughout the galaxy. The ion grenade fires an electromagnetic pulse similar to that of an ion cannon. Cryogenic grenades release a supercooled carbonite spray and are used as emergency fire suppressant . The so-called “bacta bomb” was invented to disperse a medicated bacta mist over an area—this is largely ineffective at treating battlefield trauma, and after an unsuccessful trial period the Republic Defense Force ceased the use of bacta bombs. The grenades have instead found a second life in alternative medicine communities, where it is erroneously believed that diffusing bacta in the home is a catch-all treatment for a number of ailments. 


	50. Power Transfer

Tyyria’s hand came to rest against the frosted transparisteel door leading to one of the palace’s many balconies—with some effort, she shoved it outward. The cool night air of Serenno drafted inward, and a chill ran across her skin as she stepped into it. She heard the slab of near-white glass move as it shut behind her, and turned her gaze from her feet up to the skyline of Stratum Apolune. 

Amidst the towers stretching skyward and their blinking emergency lights of red and amber there was a silhouette of a man—Viscount Lorian leaned against the balcony railing, his formal jacket flitting gently in the cool breeze. 

“Oh,” Tyyria said, her voice catching in her throat. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t realize anyone was out here.” 

At first the viscount did not speak—he merely held his right hand aloft. Pinched between his first two fingers was a thin cigarette, its end glowing a dim orange against the black evening sky. His gaze remained locked to the city skyline. “Don’t tell Dooku.” 

Tyyria couldn’t help but smile.  _ I suppose even royal couples have to hide bad habits from each other.  _ She shook her head, feeling a little silly once she realized Lorian wasn’t looking at her. “Of course not. I’ll leave you be.” Bowing slightly, the Jedi added: “Viscount.” 

“Stay.” At this, Lorian turned slightly to face the Twi’lek woman and offered her a slight nod. “Really, I don’t mind the company. And the royal titles are for my husband.” He turned back to lean out across the balcony railing, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling. A moment later, a thin trail of smoke escaped from between his lips. “‘Lorian’ is fine.” 

Breathing slowly through her nose, Tyyria strolled forward to stand beside him. “Lorian,” she muttered—the name came out a bit awkwardly, as if she were trying it out for the first time. She turned her own gaze to the city, staring in the same direction Lorian had been as she had set foot on the balcony. “It is a lovely view.” 

Lorian’s knuckles rapped against the balcony railing. “It won’t ever look like this again. The power is draining, we’re slowing down . . . “ he trailed off. “It’s only a matter of time before another platform is shot out of the sky. It might be this one”—at this, he gestured downward to indicate the deck beneath them. “When your home is getting picked apart like this, you enjoy the view while you can.” Taking a final drag from the cigarette, Lorian let it drop from between his fingers—still faintly glowing, it fluttered downward until it disappeared into the clouds below.

Tyyria’s eyes fluttered shut for the briefest of moments, and she breathed a deep sigh. “There’s got to be  _ something  _ we can do.” 

“I’m open to ideas.” 

The viscount’s words gave Tyyria pause—she turned her head slowly to face him. She hadn’t meant what she said,  at least not in the literal sense. The Jedi was hopeful for a solution, as anyone else would have been— _ but I’m not supposed to be the one to come up with it, right?  _

She felt something—the Force, perhaps—prodding her to just think about it for a moment. So she did. 

Tyyria ran her fingertips along the grain of the balcony railing.  _ If this isn’t real wood, it’s a pretty convincing fake,  _ she thought—shaking her head to will away the distraction, she cleared her throat and spoke aloud. “It’s a power generation issue, right? If we could channel more power into the city’s engine, we could stay aloft.” The question was directed at Lorian, though she—like the viscount—kept her eyes on the listing platforms of Stratum Apolune. 

“That’s a rather big ‘if,’” Lorian replied. “But yes, that is my understanding of the situation.” 

_ Okay, we’re getting somewhere.  _ “So what if Qui-Gon was on to something?” She paused, tilting her head to the side—one lekku, which had been draped forward over her shoulder, slid sideways until it dangled free. “I mean, obviously nobody is carrying a city’s worth of power in their pocket. But we have things that can generate power. I used to be a mechanic. What if—”

Lorian held up a hand. “I should stop you before you go any further. I’m really not the person to ask about these things. Jesmyn would be better suited to answer your questions.” 

“I’ll go get them.” Before Lorian could reply, Tyyria turned on a heel and took a handful of steps toward the door. 

“Wait,” the viscount said. “There’s something else.” 

Tyyria froze in place, allowing the cool night air to cascade across her lavender skin. She turned slowly to face Lorian. “What?” 

“Dooku.”

For several seconds, there was only the low rush of the twilight breeze. Then Lorian continued. 

“I want you to know I’m open to trying something. Trying anything, really. Dooku won’t be. That suspension engine has run for centuries without failure. He is not going to approve of someone  . . . tinkering with it.” Turning fully away from the balcony railing, Lorian gestured toward the door. “Gather everyone in the war room. Ask Jesmyn what you were going to ask me. There are bright minds in there. Jedi, too—we can’t deny that the Force is with us. We’re bound to come up with some solution.” 

Tyyria offered the viscount a single, slow nod. “And what of Dooku?” 

“Whatever we come up with, he will object. He may even order you not to do anything. If it comes to that”—Lorian’s eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply—”I will back you up. Something needs to be done, even if my husband doesn’t see that.” 

“I understand.” The words left Tyyria’s mouth in a tone barely above a whisper. 

“Go on inside,” Lorian said, turning back to gaze out over the balcony. “I’d like to stay out here . . . enjoy the view for just a little longer.” 

  
  


* * *

 

As Padmé paced from one end of the war room to the other, drumming her fingers against her blaster holster, she tried unsuccessfully to will her heart rate lower. She’d had brushes with death many times before, yes—but this was the one she felt most powerless to avoid. The end loomed over the room like a great shadow—she could almost feel the somber mood emanating off of everyone. 

Jesmyn leaned against the war table, pointlessly poking at the flickering projection of the city; Qui-Gon stood next to them, one hand on her cane and the other on the Arkanian’s shoulder. Obi-Wan and Anakin stood side by side—master and apprentice, each staring at the floor, Anakin looking as though he hoped it would swallow him whole so the day would be over. Dooku was seated—a rather basic chair had become his makeshift throne, as he was flanked on either side by a palace guard. Padmé, still officially on guard duty herself, strolled back and forth in front of the throne—until Tyyria Nox entered the room and waved her over. 

“What’s up?” Padmé asked—as she got closer to the Twi’lek and saw the concerned look on her face, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Everything okay?” 

“I have an idea,” Tyyria said. “Well, more a kernel of one. Lorian wanted everyone to gather here and talk through it.”

Padmé glanced past Tyyria, raising an eyebrow when she did not see the viscount. “Where is he?”

“He’s coming. Listen.” She paused, lowering her voice even further. “He says Dooku won’t like whatever we come up with. That we might have to defy his orders. He’ll back us up if it gets to that point.” 

“Lorian said that?” 

Tyyria nodded, shrugging slightly. “Just be ready.” Then, straightening up, the Twi’lek moved her gaze across the room. “Jesmyn?”

The Arkanian startled slightly, as if they had been sleeping and someone had woken them. With one hand, they swept the holographic city aside. “Yes?” 

Padmé watched as Tyyria took several steps toward the conference table—she seemed to have captured the whole room’s attention, not just Jesmyn’s. “What if we could channel more power into the suspension engine?” 

One of Jesmyn’s eyebrows arched, and they raised a hand to their mouth. Biting gently on her thumbnail, they paused as if to consider the question. “How do you propose we do that?” 

“I used to be a mechanic,” Tyyria replied, repeating the words she’d spoken to Lorian out on the balcony.  “We need a way to generate a lot of power—maybe we have it. This city is full of speeders, shuttles, even Republic gunships and fighters. I could open one up, hook its engine  into the city’s—”

“No, no,” Jesmyn interrupted. “I see what you’re getting at, but it’s not worth the trouble. Time is not on our side, and it would take a lot of it to dismantle a speeder. By the time you got one broken down enough that its engine would fit on the cargo elevator down to the sub-basement, we’d only be minutes away from a total power loss. You’d need more time than that just to figure out how to hook one engine into the other.”

Padmé’s mind wandered as the droidsmith spoke. She searched her thoughts for an answer to Jesmyn’s objection—as silence fell over the room, one came to her. 

“What if the entire speeder fit in the cargo elevator without taking it apart?”  
“I’m sorry?” 

“We have a swoop bike in the  _ Spice Dancer _ ,” she said. “That’d fit in your cargo elevator.”

A humorless laugh escaped Jesmyn’s mouth. “I’m not jacking a swoop bike motor into the city’s suspension engine. Do you know how high those things spike?”

“Of course I do,” Padmé snapped back, “it’s my swoop.” 

“Then you must know how disastrous that could be,” Jesmyn said. Standing tall and stepping away from Qui-Gon, they walked around to the front of the conference table and moved toward Padmé. “A suspension engine is essentially a giant repulsorlift core. What we need is something that delivers power slowly, steadily. Not something that cranks out high output in short bursts.” 

“If it’s a repulsorlift,” Tyyria asked, “then could we take a repulsor core from another ship? Plug that in?” 

“I doubt it.” This time it was Anakin’s voice breaking into the discussion—Padmé watched as her husband ended his staring contest with the floor and took a step forward. “That would have the opposite problem. Slow and steady power output, but too low to make a difference.” 

“Thank you,” Jesmyn said, half sighing the words in apparent exasperation as they gestured toward the Jedi Knight. “Finally, someone who understands.” 

“What we need is something with a steady flow of power, but a high output,” Anakin continued, seemingly unaware that Jesmyn had even said anything. He glanced from one person to another, shooting each of the room’s occupants a mischievous grin. “Like a lightsaber.” 

“What?” The single word, laced with tones of confusion and disbelief, came from Padmé’s own mouth. She found herself somehow surprised at the idea—as if years of knowing Anakin Skywalker hadn’t conditioned her to expect the occasional bout of desperate insanity. 

“You’ll have to explain why that would even work,” Jesmyn added. “I’m . . . unfamiliar with the inner workings of one.” 

“It’s got just what we need,” Anakin replied, gesticulating in the air with both hands as though he were a salesman giving an absurd pitch— _ In a way,  _ Padmé thought,  _ that’s exactly what he is.  _

Turning in place to meet the eyes of everyone in the room, Anakin continued. “The diatium power cell in a lightsaber is actually ideal for something like this. NIce low output. It’s how they last forever without being recharged or replaced. A well-maintained lightsaber can last years on one power cell.” 

“Decades, even,” Obi-Wan interjected—the Jedi Master was slowly nodding, as if he were beginning to accept his student’s plan. 

“So it wouldn’t run out of power,” Anakin continued with an excited nod. “But that’s only part of what makes it perfect. See, the diatium power cell really just provides a small spark. The lightsaber’s  _ real  _ power source”—he paused for effect, his gaze darting around the room—“is the kyber crystal.” 

Padmé had never bothered trying to understand the inner workings of a lightsaber—she had no clue if what her husband was suggesting was brilliant or insane.  _ Maybe both,  _ she thought. As her eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on each Jedi occupant, an answer began to form. One corner of Qui-Gon’s mouth was curling upward into a grin. Tyyria’s eyes were wide in amazement. Obi-Wan looked as he always did when Anakin suggested one of his crazy plans—half proud, half horrified.  _ Oh my gods, he might be onto something.  _

“The output of a kyber crystal is enormously powerful, but it’s also very stable,” Anakin said. “It has to be, otherwise a lightsaber would rip itself apart from the inside. A high-output, stable power source. Isn’t that what we need?” 

Jesmyn was silent for several moments. When they finally spoke, it was not in answer to Anakin’s question. Rather, the Arkanian turned to the Jedi standing behind them on the other side of the command table. 

“Qui-Gon,” they began, “is he right? Could this work?” 

The grin forming on Qui-Gon’s face grew wider, and she nodded. “Better than you might think. He’s forgetting one thing: kyber crystals are attuned to the Force.” 

“How does that—”

“Send a Jedi or two down to install it,” Qui-Gon interrupted before Jesmyn could finish their question, “and keep them there. They can use the Force to control the crystal’s power output—”

“That’s enough!” 

The booming command caught Padmé off guard—it had come from Dooku, whose voice was injected with such authority that it instantly silenced everyone in the room. The count rose from his improvised throne and took several steps forward; when he came to a standstill, he was at the center of the loose circle of people. Anakin, his eyes wide with apparent fear, took several steps backwards until he was practically hiding behind Obi-Wan. 

“Are you  _ listening  _ to yourselves?” Dooku continued. “I will not stand by and let this insanity play out. Nobody is plugging a bloody  _ lightsaber _ into a suspension engine that has run uninterrupted for centuries. The consequences could be disastrous.”

It was the first time Padmé had seen him lose his temper. From the flabbergasted expressions around the room, she gathered the same held true for the others.

The count inhaled deeply; when he spoke again, his voice was much lower. “The solutions proposed earlier, imperfect as they may have been seemed to have merit. Monitoring the Lancer’s heat output, or having your fighter pilots watch for signs of the station firing? Surely those are still within our capabilities.” 

“They don’t solve the real problem.” A new voice sounded, calling out from a shadowy corner of the control room. “We need to generate more power to stay aloft. This is how we will do it.”

As its speaker stepped into the warm artificial light, Count Dooku’s eyes widened in unadorned surprise. 

“Lorian? You approve of this?” 

“I acknowledge the risks, of course,” the viscount replied—as he strolled toward Anakin, Jesmyn stepped aside to allow Lorian to pass by them. “I also acknowledge that this is far better than doing nothing at all. I want to look back on this day and say that I tried to do something, Dooku. So yes, I approve of this.” 

Reaching inside his buttoned formal jacket, Lorian extracted a shining metal card and turned to face Anakin. “This is the palace master key. Skywalker, take Tyyria down to the suspension engine. You two seem to be the best fit for the job.” He held the key out toward the Jedi—somewhat reluctantly, Anakin plucked the metal card from Lorian’s grip with his mechanical thumb and forefinger. “Jesmyn,” Lorian continued, “please direct these two to the engine room.”

“Stop!” Dooku barked. Whirling around to face his two guards—who had remained on either side of Dooku’s impromptu throne—the count jabbed a finger back at Anakin. “Guards, I want you to place Skywalker and Miss Nox under arrest.” 

“I wouldn’t do that.” 

Padmé’s next actions happened almost on instinct. The moment she objected to the arrest order, she felt her hand move of its own accord to the gunbelt fastened around her waist. She stared harshly at the two armored guards, who froze in place—it occurred to her the reason they had stopped was that she was now holding Count Dooku at gunpoint. 

Padmé’s gaze darted to meet Tyyria’s—the Twi’lek’s lavender skin had gone a shade lighter, and she looked vaguely horrified as her head shook back and forth in the slightest of motions. Padmé watched as Tyyria’s lips moved slightly. It took her a moment to process what the Jedi was saying, but then it dawned on her— _ not like this _ . 

Nevertheless, Padmé kept her blaster trained on Dooku, waiting for the backup that Lorian had allegedly promised. She got it when, much to her surprise, Jesmyn drew a blaster and pointed it at Dooku too. 

This seemed to not faze the count—his eyes merely narrowed as he stared in apparent disappointment at his former droidsmith. It was the next drawn firearm that truly shook the room. 

Viscount Lorian slid a hand into his jacket and extracted a small holdout blaster, then leveled it directly at his husband. A few audible gasps sounded throughout the control room, though Padmé could only place one of them. Dooku’s face fell as he stared back at Lorian—shaking his head, the count spoke in a whisper: “Lorian, no.” 

The viscount did not acknowledge his husband’s words, instead turning to face Anakin. “You and Tyyria should get down to the engine. Jesmyn?” 

The Arkanian stumbled over their words slightly, but kept their blaster trained steadily on Dooku. “Um, the master key . . . it should work in the main elevator. Insert the key and select sub-basement three. From there, signs will mark the way.” 

“Thanks,” Anakin mumbled—in an instant, he and Tyyria disappeared through the door. 

In the wake of their departure, Padmé found herself looking to Lorian—it occurred to her she hadn’t thought of a plan beyond stopping Dooku. Fortunately, it seemed the viscount had a sense of what steps to take next. 

“Guards,” he said, “you are dismissed. Go be with your families, or head outside and prepare to defend your city. Miss Amidala and the Jedi will guard us for now.” 

The guards bowed in unison—wordlessly they moved toward the exit, their robes flowing behind them as they gave the group in the center of the room a wide berth. As the door shut behind them, Padmé exhaled slowly, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

“Now, Padmé, if you would,” Lorian began,  stepping back to gesture toward the door, “let us all move toward the throne room. I think it would be best if Dooku and I remain there until this is over.” 

“Of course,” Padmé mumbled, her voice slightly shaky. Willing herself to act more confident, she stood tall and gestured with the barrel of her blaster. “Let’s go.” 

  
  


* * *

 

The halls of the Count’s Palace seemed more ominous than they ever had to Qui-Gon—lit only by emergency lighting, the regal fixtures along the rising white walls were cast in great shadow. The Jedi moved slowly through the hall, leaning into her cane with each step—in front of her,  Lorian and Padmé escorted Dooku through the corridor, still holding him at gunpoint. Obi-Wan walked behind them, though he held no weapons in hand. 

Glancing over his shoulder, the Jedi Master briefly made eye contact with Qui-Gon—he looked as though he were about to be sick. 

A mental conversation with Obi-Wan was out of the question—Dooku would be able to overhear it. Qui-Gon could do nothing but shake her head and shrug. This was, without a doubt, the worst a diplomatic assignment had ever gone for her—a hostile takeover between the royal couple was not something any of them could really have prepared for. She could only hope her old master would look the other way once this was over—though she had to admit it was unlikely. 

And then there was Jesmyn. The Arkanian had been kind enough to slow their pace and walk alongside Qui-Gon on this slow march through the palace halls, though the two of them had barely made eye contact since leaving the control room. Qui-Gon stared sideways at her companion, then glanced back up at the two people pointing blasters at the Count of Serenno. 

“You’re okay with this?” Qui-Gon whispered, speaking out of the side of her mouth in Jesmyn’s direction. “I thought palace staff all took the same oath.” 

“I’m not really palace staff anymore,” Jesmyn replied, keeping their gaze trained forward.

“Still,” Qui-Gon replied, “you pointed a gun at someone you swore to protect.” 

This was enough to get Jesmyn to look her way—the Arkanian froze in place, staring down at Qui-Gon and lowering their voice to a whisper. “Because in that moment, that was the only way to protect him. If he won’t let us save him, we have to make him let us.” 

“It feels wrong.”

“Of course it does,” Jesmyn said. “But at least we’ll be alive.” They paused, glancing back down the hallway at the group of people moving toward the throne room. “You better go catch up. I should really head back upstairs. I’ll need to be ready to fire the engine once your Jedi friends are done tinkering with it.” 

Reaching out to grasp Jesmyn’s hand, Qui-Gon gave it a light squeeze. “See you on the other side, then?” 

Nodding, the Arkanian leaned over and kissed Qui-Gon on the cheek. “Stay safe.” Stepping back, they spun around and hurriedly moved back in the direction the group had come from.

As Jesmyn disappeared around a corner, Qui-Gon turned and resumed her slow walk through the palace halls. 

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Anakin began, “when Dooku said this thing was ‘centuries old,’ I thought that was a figure of speech or something.” 

He stared at the hulking suspension engine as it whirred and buzzed and hissed spouts of steam. The massive machinery was coated in rust and dirt and grime, a far cry from the pristine exterior of Stratum Apolune. It felt alive, too, in a way that modern ship engines often didn’t. Portions of the suspension engine rotated like fans, while others pumped up and down. Despite this, it was not nearly as noisy as Anakin would’ve expected it to be—when he turned to speak to Tyyria again, he only had to raise his voice slightly. 

“Think there’s some sort of maintenance panel we can plug into?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine, Skywalker,” the Twi’lek replied—nevertheless, she moved to walk around the outside of the engine housing, her gaze sweeping up and down the room-sized machine as she walked. 

“There’s something else,” Anakin continued. “Bit of an awkward question, I guess, but . . . whose lightsaber are we using for this? Because once we’re done I might not be able to put it back together.” 

Tyyria chuckled and unclipped the lightsaber from her belt, tossing it across the room to Anakin. Though the throw was far from accurate, the saber changed direction in midair to land squarely in the palm of his mechanical hand. “Use mine,” she said. “I didn’t even build it, it’s a spare from the Temple armory.” 

“Armory gear, huh?” Anakin said, turning the saber over in his hand to inspect it. “You know, if this works, it’ll make quite a story for Master Qlik. One of his sabers powering a whole city. He’d love it.” 

_ “If  _ it works?” Tyyria said, leaning out from behind a piece of machinery to glare at Anakin. “This was your idea!” 

“Sorry,” he said with a laugh. “ _ When  _ it works, then.” 

“Found a maintenance patch panel,” Tyyria called out, seemingly ignoring Anakin’s remarks. “Should be a decent spot to jack in a new power source.” 

“Alrighty, then,” Anakin said, gripping each end of the borrowed lightsaber with one hand. Closing his eyes and gripping as hard as he could, he twisted the weapon’s housing—he felt the inner workings separate from the saber’s casing with a satisfying  _ snap.  _

Letting go of one end of the saber, Anakin let the exterior casing clatter to the floor. He held the saber’s interior aloft. A roughly cylindrical mess of wires served as a sort of nest for what they needed—the gently glowing blue kyber crystal. 

“Okay!” Tyyria called out, waving Anakin over to where she was standing. “Let’s get to work.”

 

* * *

 

The glowing blade of crimson sizzled sharply as Valis plunged it into the abdomen of a Serennan dock worker. 

The  _ Scimitar _ ’s arrival at a landing pad on the edge of Stratum Apolune had, as Valis expected, been met with some resistance. An initial volley of fire from the ship’s laser cannons had cleared the platform, though additional personnel had arrived to cause trouble as Maul and Valis had disembarked their vessel. 

Valis had quickly dispatched her attackers—as she shut her saber blade off, the final body collapsed to the deck. Pushing at the corpse with her boot, she shoved it over the edge of the landing platform. She watched it sail into the abyss as she clipped her lightsaber to her belt. 

Maul, it seemed, was more content to fiddle with his prey. Though two dock workers lay dead on either side of him, a third was on his knees, clawing at his skull with his fingers. Maul stood over him, an outstretched hand pulling at the air around the man’s head. 

Rolling her eyes, Valis strolled over to stand alongside Maul, then drew her blaster pistol and shot the dock worker in the throat. 

“That’s enough,” she snapped, holstering the blaster. “We need to move quickly, before Archon Threll decides to fire the  _ Lancer  _ while we’re down here.”

“I was extracting information,” Maul growled, glancing down at the body. “The Jedi are in the palace. If you’d given me more time, I might have learned precisely where.”

“It doesn’t matter where. We aren’t going to the palace.” 

Maul’s eyes widened; Valis could feel the flare of anger rise within him. “Why not?” 

Turning away from her Sith teacher, Valis strolled toward the edge of the landing platform. The wind of Serenno whipped across her body—the black cloak she’d chosen to cover her tattered admiral’s uniform fluttered in the breeze. In the distance, she could see the palace in question—its spire rose past the rest of the city’s skyline, piercing the clouds above it. 

“The palace is fortified. They’re familiar with the territory.  And, you’ll recall, we are outnumbered.” 

“What do you suggest?” 

“We need to draw them out,” she replied, turning back to face Maul. “We should split up.” 

“That,” he spat, “is the last thing we should be doing.” 

Valis nodded. “Which is precisely why we’re doing it. They will think they’ve outsmarted us.”

A grunt escaped Maul’s mouth. “Make them overconfident.” 

“Kill anyone who gets in your way, too. That should make them hurry up.” 

“Overconfident  _ and  _ sloppy,” Maul said with a nod. 

Valis moved toward the walkway which connected the landing platform with one of Stratum Apolune’s buildings. “Precisely. The dark side is with us both, Maul. This time, we’ll kill them.” 

 

* * *

 

Padmé stood at the base of the steps ascending to Dooku’s throne—at their peak sat the count, elbows planted on the arms of the throne and fingers intertwined. At his right hand sat Lorian—when they’d reached the throne room, the viscount had surrendered his weapon, voluntarily placing himself under the same house arrest as his husband. It may have made things less awkward, but it certainly didn’t make Padmé’s job easier. 

Closer to the door stood Obi-Wan Kenobi, who had resigned himself to holding his lightsaber hilt in one hand. “ _ This isn’t for you,”  _ he had said of the weapon as Dooku and Lorian took their seats.  _ “It’s in case the clones breach the door.”  _ Padmé, at least, believed him. Qui-Gon was near Padmé and the royal couple, leaning heavily into her cane and pacing as best as someone in her condition could.

Frowning, Padmé put a hand to her breast. The palace wasn’t that cold, but without warning the wooden carving of her necklace had turned cold—as though someone had put it on ice.

For the past several minutes no one had said a word—this made the sudden feeling of silence in the room all the more jarring. The life seemed to drain out of the two Jedi, as well as Dooku—each shivered slightly in unison, their breathing becoming shallow and reserved.

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon locked eyes with each other, but said nothing at first. After several moments of silence—and a slow nod from Qui-Gon—Obi-Wan spoke. 

“I’ll take him.” 

With that, he spun on a heel and left the throne room. 

Padmé’s eyes turned first to Qui-Gon, then to Dooku and Lorian. As she stared at the count, he raised an eyebrow. 

“ _ ‘Him _ ?’” Dooku asked. 

“Darth Maul,” came the answer—not from Padmé’s mouth, but from Qui-Gon’s. “The Sith we faced on Had Abbadon. It seems he’s landed here.”

“You speak as though you believe him to be alone,” Dooku said.  

“He was before.” 

Dooku shook his head, then spread his arms wide. “The echoes of the dark side reverberate across the city much too strongly. Surely you know how the Jedi Archives speak of the Sith—they do not work alone. There are always two. One to hold the power—”

“—and the other to crave it,” Qui-Gon said, finishing Dooku’s thought for him. She glanced down at the floor, then up at Padmé. “I have to go.” 

Qui-Gon Jinn moved across the throne room—at first she limped, leaning heavily into her cane with each step. As she neared the door, she began half-jogging. One hand held high, she threw the throne room door aside without ever touching it. As it swung shut behind her, Padmé could just make out the injured Jedi breaking into a full blown run. 

The throne room door slammed closed, and Padmé was alone with the leaders of Serenno. 


	51. En Garde

“I really, really wish you guys had grabbed a toolbox off the  _ Dancer _ before Liz left,” Anakin said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead before it could drip into his eyes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the extra firepower,” he added, shrugging his shoulder to prevent the carbine he wore from sliding off, “but a pair of pliers would be even better.”

The inner workings of Tyyria’s lightsaber hovered in the air about a foot away from his face. Across from him, the Twi’lek had her face screwed up in concentration, keeping the deconstructed weapon perfectly in place. Anakin, in turn, focused on one wire at a time, slowly disconnecting each from the power supply and letting it droop downward to clear a path to the crystal. Bare fingers wouldn’t do—one clumsy move and he’d risk the thing blowing up in their faces.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Tyyria replied, unblinking, though her lekku twitched every now and then. “Halfway there.”

_ Halfway there. And the  _ Lancer _ is capable of firing again in . . . how long? _

For a moment, Anakin let his mind go blank, disconnecting from the lightsaber, the suspension engine, everything. With a long, slow exhalation, he closed his eyes and did his best to expel every thought, every worry, every doubt from his head, from his sweating body, from his slightly shaking hands.

This, he’d come to learn, was one of the greatest gifts of being connected to the Force, something he’d never thought to do back in the days when he was still using his abilities for cons and escapes, not seeing them for what they truly were. It still wasn’t something he was able to do often—after the first time, when he’d let himself become a channel of Force energy, giving himself up to the current and hurling Maul out a window in the process, he’d tried for weeks to recover the feeling and been unable to. When he’d asked Obi-Wan, frustrated and bewildered, how to voluntarily recreate a state of perfect harmony with the Force, a total lack of self, his master had only ruefully smiled.

_ I’ve only done it a few times myself,  _ he’d said,  _ and almost never without undergoing great stress. The last time it happened was when I had to crashland the  _ Helios _. In a way, it’s the very act of  _ wanting  _ to do it that stops you from being able to. Want is not something the Force responds well to. _

And indeed, Anakin had spent most of the last two years chasing that feeling without success. But his failure had been itself a kind of success—while he couldn’t erase himself entirely, he was able now to drown out the white noise and just  _ be _ . It wasn’t the same overwhelming, indescribable state that came when the Force made him a conduit, but it was something sacred all the same.

He felt his pulse drop to a normal level, the thudding of his heart slow to a steady, even beat. His senses extended, passing through the city—he could see without seeing the white-hot burn of the kyber crystal that floated before him, the warm determined glow of Tyyria across from him, the candles that were  Padmé and Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan up above, the cool mirror-shine of Count Dooku, the pinpoint sparks of all the citizens of Stratum Apolune huddled in shelters

And then, something changed.

A slithering, unclean feeling began to spread across his skin, as though he’d been dipped in mildew. Two tendrils rolled slowly down his back, burning with a flame that was somehow black. One, fainter, less distinct, was headed downward, for the base of the city.

The other was slithering toward Obi-Wan.

Wordlessly, as if waking from a nightmare, Anakin cried out.

The vision disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Though its streets were empty of inhabitants, Maul felt Stratum Apolune practically boil with life. It was hidden away from clones and laserfire and the  _ Lancer _ , packed into the lowest platform levels, like insects sealed within their own hive. The citizens’ collective energy formed a broad wave of static, one that Maul shoved aside for the clear signal buried underneath.

Kenobi.

The Jedi was on the move—he, too, had plucked Maul’s aura from the static as soon as the Zabrak had wished him to. They were too far apart for him to sense what the general’s mood was, but Maul hoped that escaping the  _ Lancer _ hadn’t taken the fight out of his opponent.

_ Last time you were weak, injured, hardly worth my time, _ he thought to himself as he twirled his deactivated lightsaber between his fingers, keeping the muscles limber.  _ And still you managed to stay alive.  _ And for two years now Maul had been replaying that fight in his mind, analyzing Kenobi’s style, planning for the day that had now arrived.

He came to the edge of the platform he was traversing. Despite the black sky, Maul could make out a thin black thread running between this one and the elevated platform beyond—it looked like something that a cable car would use to pass between platforms when the city was in operational condition. What lay on top of the section on the other side of the gap, the Sith lord didn’t know. What he  _ did _ know was that Kenobi was headed there.

With one last flip of his saber hilt, the Zabrak returned his weapon to his belt. He bent his knees, crouched, and then leapt.

If he’d hesitated the barest fraction of a second after he’d landed atop the cable, he would have fallen. Instead, even as his feet came down upon it he was exploding into forward motion, crossing the taut wire like a tightrope, directing a cushion of Force energy into the soles of his boots to prevent shock. The wind buffeted against his face like a typhoon, roaring in his ears—halfway across, he almost slipped, and let the adrenaline spike his connection to the dark side like an injection.

As his boots came down on the new platform, he still felt as though he were walking on air. Kenobi was  _ here. _

The building the Jedi had drawn him to—or that the Force had drawn both of them to—was studded with instruments and protrusions, a massive dome angled toward the sky. Maul strode around its perimeter, searching for a door—when he found one, it bore a sign that read,  _ Observatory undergoing routine maintenance. Do not enter. _

It wasn’t worth a lightsaber blade. Maul simply made a gloved fist, and the door crumpled inward.

His footfalls echoed against the floor as he followed the narrow passage inward. As was the case outside, power rationing had reduced illumination to thin strips of emergency lighting that painted the walls flickering red. Maul could have called upon the dark side to lend an edge to his eyesight, but he let himself enjoy the atmosphere. He didn’t need to see well, yet.

At the end of the hallway lay another door. This one was not locked. As Maul stepped toward it, it silently swept open, revealing the inner dome beyond.

There was no emergency lighting around the central dome’s perimeter; no shades of red or yellow dyed its surfaces. Instead, pinpoint spotlights glittered across the ceiling, filtering down in miniscule beams to bathe the floor in dots of illumination—the constellations of the Aurora system’s night sky, filtered through the observatory’s instruments.

As Maul paused for half a step—even he was not immune to certain kinds of beauty—this light show flickered with sudden motion—distant clouds of orange bloomed, then died out. The Republic’s pilots, the Sith lord realized, taking potshots at the  _ Lancer _ . That they’d survived the initial bombing run was impressive, but not entirely surprising. Only the best for Typhoon Division, after all.

Slowly, evenly, he paced the beginnings of a circle around the dome. He knew his opponent was here, but Kenobi had muted his presence now, drawn it down into himself, masking the scent. Maul could wait.

In that moment, he felt he had all the time in the world.

More orange blossoms emerged across the dome at random intervals, occasionally shot through with streaks of green. Maul found himself slowing the gaps between his steps, watching the drama unfold. Perhaps, he thought, one of them would get lucky and land a torpedo strike on Threll’s bridge. Too much to hope for, and yet—

A muted, heavy  _ thunk _ sounded from somewhere at the center of the dome. Without warning, blackness slammed down across the battle, across the stars.

And then, with a spidery hiss of flaring plasma, a blade the color of pure emerald pierced the void.

Maul bit back a bark of laughter—the theatrics, he thought, were something he would have deployed were he in Kenobi’s position. Could it be that the Jedi had been looking forward to this as well?

In any event, he met him in kind. In one smooth motion, his dual blades whirled into a salute, twin crimson wounds in the black.

“You’ve changed weapons since last time,” the Zabrak noted as he strode forward, moving his saberstaff in slow, lazy circles. “Couldn’t keep hold of your old one?”

The two of them had closed enough distance that Maul could make out Kenobi’s bearded face, bathed in the green glow of his blade. It both was and wasn’t the face the Sith lord remembered—older, ghostly in the emerald light, but not on the edge of sheer physical burnout as it had been on Had Abbadon. “Oh, I’ll be reclaiming mine soon enough,” the general said, mirroring Maul’s twirling blade with a quick snap of his own wrist. “When we’ve captured your station up there.”

This time, Maul let his scoffing laughter out. “Blind faith. A Jedi tradition.”

“Oh,” replied Kenobi, now a mere few meters away, “it’s not faith. It’s a promise. One I look forward to keeping.”

Before Maul could reply, the Jedi lunged.

He’d put all the power of his back foot behind the thrust, but that meant it was telegraphed—Maul easily batted it aside with one blade before it could drive upward into his chin, then brought the opposite blade around to swipe at Kenobi’s own throat. But the Jedi had anticipated this, turning the lunge into a roll that carried him under Maul’s riposte and brought him into position to jab at the Zabrak’s ankles. Maul let his staff’s momentum carry his first blade downward to block this strike, then disengaged, quickstepping to the left and bringing himself back to guard.

He grinned, raising one blade to illuminate his face. “I made myself a promise of my own, General. I look forward to killing you on even footing.”

He pushed himself forward, and bloodred plasma crackled against green.

 

* * *

 

Anakin didn’t need to explain his reaction. As his eyesight came back into focus, Tyyria’s lekku twitched in agitation, and she said, voice full of dread, “Maul?”

“Not just him. There’s someone else.”

The lightsaber wobbled, and Anakin hastily reached out to clutch it with his mechanical hand before it hit the ground. In the midst of his reverie, he noted, he’d managed to completely strip away the rest of the wiring.  _ Small mercies. _

“ _ Two _ of them?” the Twi’lek asked, the lavender skin of her face growing paler. “There haven’t been  _ any _ reports I’ve heard about a second Sith lord operating for the Confederacy.”

“Yeah, well, no one knew about Maul before he skewered Qui-Gon, so just take my word for it.” He reached out to feel the stronger presence again, and while his reverie-enhanced perceptions were gone, he had no trouble finding it. “And Maul is headed straight for Obi-Wan.”

It sounded like Tyyria was trying to be reassuring, but her voice quavered as she said, “I’m sure Master Kenobi can handle himself.”

It wasn’t that Anakin didn’t trust his master. He didn’t even think he himself was the better fighter, not really—he and Obi-Wan had practice-dueled each other to a standstill more times than he could count. But he remembered what had happened the last time Obi-Wan had faced a Sith, when  Padmé had said he could handle things—remembered what  _ would _ have happened if he hadn’t finally showed up to prevent it. And if Maul got  _ past  _ Obi-Wan—headed for Dooku in the throne room . . .

_ Padmé. _

“We’ve gotta hurry this up,”’ he replied, shifting position to face the maintenance panel. “Come on.”

Carefully, as delicately as he could manage with his body resisting the constant overbearing urge to start running for Obi-Wan  _ right now _ , he peeled a single wire away from the pack—the main connector that ran from the kyber crystal’s core to the lightsaber’s diatium power cell.  _ Now all we have to do is jack _ that—his eyes moved from the tiny strip of red to the grime-caked suspension engine’s housing— _ into that. _

“Okay,” he said, forcing a calm he didn’t remotely feel into his voice. “I’m gonna need you to hold onto the saber while I make the connection with this wire. The Force or your hands, whichever works better.”

A moment later, he felt her hands brush against his—the electrostatic touch simulators on his mechanical hand experienced it as data more than an actual sensation, but his flesh hand twitched in response to the brief connection. Both of them, he realized, still had the shakes, from nerves and from tiredness and from the knowledge of what waited for them back upstairs.

He pressed his hands against Tyyria’s, felt the mutual pressure lend steadiness to their grips. “Come on,” she managed, tightening her hold on the saber. “Let’s make Qlik proud.”

Slowly, Anakin started to move the wire.

 

* * *

 

For the second time in far too short a period, Valis found herself alone in the dark.

This time, though, she felt no fear. The only motion down here was that of the parasitic robots feeding on defunct mining droids like the ones that were killing wetworks up above—a far cry from mutated human experiments. And while the junkheap was bathed in shadow, gouts of flame still lined the walls, rendering her surroundings easily navigable.

_ If she’s trying to scare me,  _ the admiral thought,  _ she’s going to have to do better. _

For it  _ was _ a she—the dark side hadn’t told Valis much about the presence drawing nearer to her, but she knew enough to be confident that it was neither Kenobi or Skywalker. Which left Qui-Gon Jinn.

Jinn’s purpose was obvious enough—lure Valis away while Kenobi dealt with Maul. She couldn’t be alone, of course—after what Maul had done to her, she would be useless as anything but bait. Valis couldn’t sense anyone else headed her way, but she had no doubt they were coming, be they Republic soldiers or palace security.

_ No matter,  _ she told herself.  _ Deal with them quickly, then rendezvous with Maul. _

He would need her, she knew. The Zabrak was a match for Kenobi or for Skywalker on their own, but both Jedi together?

Well.  _ He might trust in the dark side, but a backup plan never hurt anybody. _

Gently, she unclasped her lightsaber’s hilt from her belt, feeling the cool metal against her hand. A particularly large mining droid stood in her path; she traced a slow semicircle around it, watching for any flicker of movement in the distance.

_ Blaster fire, I’ll be able to deflect. If they have explosives, though, that could bring down one of these droids on my head—I’ll have to stay light on my— _

“Why hello!”

Valis froze.

Across the chamber, striding gingerly forward, was Jinn. She was not moving unassisted—her right hand clutched a metal rod, a cane. It tapped steadily against the ground beneath them, the echo growing louder each time.

“So Maul was afraid to challenge me to a rematch? Sent his junior Sith to get the job done?” she continued. As she drew close enough for light to fall across her face, Valis saw a broad smirk stretch across the Jedi’s face. “Smart move on his part. I had him on the ropes, you know. Pity he cheated.”

Valis pressed her blade’s ignition switch and let its crimson plasma emerge. “Maybe he thought you weren’t worth the time,” she replied, giving the weapon a contemptuous flick as she rounded the droid-statue; sparks burst from the gash.

_ Keep her talking,  _ she thought as she took a step closer to her opposite. Doing so would play into Jinn’s hand—she was, obviously, jabbing at Valis to buy time for her unseen allies to get into position—but it would also give Valis the opportunity to spot those allies.

Jinn let out what sounded like a genuine chuckle. “Oh, come now, don’t kick a woman when she’s down.”

Putting on her best imitation of Maul’s feral grin, the admiral angled her lightsaber into guard position. “It  _ is _ a bit of an insult, I’ll admit. To me, I mean. Him sending me to finish off a cripple.”

They were perhaps five meters apart, now—Valis could see her blade’s scarlet glow reflected off the metal of Jinn’s cane. To her private consternation, she still couldn’t sense anything else living in the area, even as she actively probed with her senses for the barest whisper of activity.  _ There’s no chance she came alone. It would be throwing her life away. _

Again the Jedi laughed, but this time it was different—there was an edge to it, something that let Valis know she’d struck a sore spot. “I’ll admit, Admiral Valis—you  _ are _ Admiral Valis, aren’t you?—you may have a point. You with a lightsaber, me all alone with nothing but a cane. It is a bit anticlimactic.

“What if I could make things more interesting for you?”

Valis tensed, preparing to dive behind cover if need be—she’d worry about the Jedi recognizing her later.  _ Here’s where she reveals her friends and they start shooting at me. _

Nobody fired. Nothing appeared in the distance.

Instead, with a remarkably quick motion, Jinn flipped her cane upward—and it  _ changed _ .

Its rigid length was sinuous now, like a snake falling from the Jedi’s hand—it had  _ split _ , Valis saw, into segments, forming a chain or a whip. Before Valis could do more than blink, Jinn’s thumb pressed down, and an ozone-laced crackle filled the air.

Flowing through the whip’s metal pieces was a cord of livid green energy.

“Strictly speaking,” said Jinn, “I’m not allowed a lightsaber anymore. So I had to improvise. A good friend made it for me.” She snapped her wrist, and the lightwhip spat a discharge of humming plasma. “I do hope it makes this a bit more interesting for you.”

And then, her limp still visible but her pace alarmingly quick, she began to close the distance.

Valis ground her back foot into the dust that covered the ground. Her body buzzed with adrenaline and, beneath that, sudden, animal fear.

_ Use it, _ she chided herself.  _ Make it yours. _

She clenched her teeth, and willed the dark side to burn off the nerves, channel them into the fight. Weapon or no weapon, Jinn was still an invalid with a toy, and Valis had been sparring with a Sith Lord for two years now. This only had one outcome.

Silently, a grim anticipation sizzling in her gut, she charged.

 

* * *

 

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: ELECTROSTAVE CANE** _

A weapon of the Jedi Armory, crafted by Quartermaster Qlik for the injured Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn.

Disguised as a standard walking cane, this weapon was built from the remains of a lightsaber-resistant electrostave. The handle contains much of the hardware found in a lightsaber hilt—upon activation, the cane’s body splits into a flexible chain whip, its metal sections connected by strands of lightsaber energy.

Though the flexible whip boasts a greater reach than that of a typical lightsaber, the dexterity required to effectively wield it is greater as well. Madame Jinn’s electrostave cane is one-of-a-kind; the weapon is unlikely to be adopted by the wider Jedi Order.


	52. The Surge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Apologies for the missed chapter last week—back on schedule!

For the first time in what felt like days, Jesmyn was alone. 

The monitoring station–turned–war room still held signs of its former occupants—a stray caf mug, half empty and long since cooled to room temperature, or the opulent office chair that had served as Dooku’s makeshift throne. The only signs of life now were the Arkanian who stood before the control table, and that table’s glow reflected in their skin. 

The wireframe of Stratum Apolune pulsed with a dim energy—Jesmyn could practically feel the ancient city’s structure groaning as it made an effort to lumber across the night sky. Stratum Apolune was dying, and for the sake of everyone aboard, Jesmyn dearly hoped the Jedi deep below were nearing the end of their work. 

They rapped their fingers against the control table’s surface in quick succession,  matching the pulsing rhythm of the wireframe projection. A simulated explosion in the midst of the model city saw glowing vector lines crackle apart; a bridge connecting two floating platforms had shattered, likely taking clone and robot occupants down with it. The mining droids, Jesmyn presumed, would survive the fall. It was what they were designed for, after all. The clones wouldn’t be so lucky. 

“ _ Jesmyn _ ?” a static-wrapped voice cut across the near silence of the control room. It was Skywalker, no doubt speaking through an intercom terminal down in the sub basement. Jesmyn stabbed a blinking button on the control table with their thumb. 

“Go ahead.” 

A series of exhausted breaths sounded over the line. “ _ I think we’re ready. Should we power it on?”  _

_ It, _ referring to whatever technical abomination of a generator Skywalker and the Twi’lek had pieced together from a lightsaber.  _ I don’t even want to know what it looks like,  _ Jesmyn thought—visions of a jumbled mess of wires dangling from the suspension engine flashed across their mind, and they shuddered. The Arkanian placed a free hand atop a set of power regulator controls and closed their eyes, then keyed the intercom back on. 

“Do it.” 

Jesmyn would never have claimed to be a technopath—they couldn’t sense machines the way a Jedi sensed organic life—and yet the instant surge of energy across the entire palace was palpable. The floor beneath the droidsmith seemed to buzz, and the wireframe projection of the city hovering before them—which had been growing ever fainter as the power situation became more dire—briefly glowed with the intensity of a spotlight. At the far end of the room, one lamp’s bulb shone so brightly it shattered. The droidsmith sprang into action, hands frantically grasping at the city’s controls—at once, the power surge seemed to die down as the palace tower lurched sideways. 

Stratum Apolune was moving at full speed— _ no, above full speed,  _ Jesmyn thought, their eyes widening as they scanned the city’s holographic projection. Smiling, they pushed the intercom button with their thumb. “It worked. We’re moving again, and it looks like your contraption is generating a power surplus.” 

A satisfied chuckle crackled on the comm.  _ “So we could keep this up for a while?”  _

“Indeed. Nicely done.” The Arkanian paused, their eyes darting to various points across the projection of the city. “Watch the power output, though. Things spiked a little high when you first powered it on.” 

_ “Yeah, we really felt that down here. Tyyria’s meditating now, trying to control the kyber crystal a little bit more. I’ll join her.”  _

“Copy that. Jesmyn out.” 

Credit where it was due—Skywalker had taken something the droidsmith had violently opposed less than an hour ago and made it happen.  _ Maybe he really is some sort of miracle worker. _

After lingering a few seconds to ensure things were working as intended, Jesmyn took a cautious step backward from the control table and turned to face the window behind them. Across the hovering city platforms, the blood red of blaster fire flashed in the streets—a grim reminder that although they’d managed to avoid further fire from the Lancer up above, the fight was far from over. 

Jesmyn’s thoughts turned to Qui-Gon as they scanned the city skyline. “Stay safe out there,” they whispered—more to themself than to their Jedi companion. “And come back soon.”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in their last exchange, one of the combatants had reached out blindly for the observatory controls to rid the room of its blackness. Now, once again, the dome of the Serenno Observatory danced with streaking starfighters and missiles—the image of the moon’s orbital space was magnified several times over by the observatory dome, and lances from starfighter laser cannons illuminated the entire room in bright spurts of red and green. 

In the center of it all, Sith Lord and Jedi Master walked slowly in a circle. 

Obi-Wan held his saber at the ready, both hands gripping the unfamiliar hilt. Opposite him, Maul slashed one of his dual blades across the floor, sending a spray of sparks in Obi-Wan’s direction and leaving a glowing scar in the polished tile. 

Inhaling deeply, the Jedi prepared to take a step toward the Zabrak—though he was cut short as an image of a fireball bloomed across the ceiling of the observatory dome. 

Maul flashed the Jedi a grin shot through with malice. “One of your Sawsharks?” 

Obi-Wan pushed the thought aside. It likely wasn’t—he would’ve felt one of his own people die. “Perhaps it was one of your clones.” 

A humorless chuckle escaped Maul’s mouth. “The wetworks are like weeds, Kenobi. Kill one of my men and two more are ready to take his place.” 

“Speaking of reinforcements,” Obi-Wan said, taking a step to the left and continuing to circle Maul, “you arrived here with plenty of them.” He paused, arching one eyebrow and cocking his head to the side. “And yet you fight alone.” 

“And you?” Maul spat back. “How is the young Skywalker? Still crippled by fear, as he was on Had Abbadon?” 

“He bested you on Had Abbadon, if I recall,” Obi-Wan said. “He’s only grown stronger since then.” 

The air hummed as if full of electricity, waiting for the two to make a move. Obi-Wan shifted his grip on his saber, but made no move to attack.  _ Keep him talking, wait for an opening . . . _

Maul took a step to the side, and Obi-Wan responded in kind—at the same time, the Zabrak lowered his saberstaff to the side of his body, though he kept both blades active. “I don’t doubt it. His power radiates through the Force. But do you not sense the  _ source  _ of that power? There is a darkness within him.” 

Obi-Wan felt his grip on the borrowed lightsaber falter as he took another step to circle around Maul—just for a second, and then he’d brought it back to guard before the Sith could make a move. Shaking his head, he replied “There is a darkness in all of us, is there not? Anakin wished to work through it. It’s why he became a Jedi.” He let his saber’s point extend forward, aimed at the Sith like an accusing finger. “It’s not too late for you, you know. Surely all this hatred is tiring.”

If he’d been a better Jedi, he would have meant it, but instead he threw the offer outward like a dart. One that seemed to have grazed its target—Maul snarled and gave a particularly vehement flourish of his saberstaff, sending a red blur across the general’s vision. The Zabrak remained at a safe distance, though, stepping once again to the side instead of forward. “His destiny lies beyond your Jedi Order. I can  _ feel  _ it. There is anger within him. Anger and fear. They will be his strength.” 

“You’re wrong,” Obi-Wan said simply, one corner of his mouth forming into a half-smile not unlike one his student might make. “Anakin’s strength is found in the light. In compassion and peace.” 

Maul shrugged. “A temporary moment of weakness, perhaps. The dark side will forgive him.” 

This, Obi-Wan decided, was as good as he was going to get—already the Zabrak was taking half a step forward, and the Jedi could sense his intention to spring.

Time seemed to slow, Maul’s movements suddenly reduced to a crawl. Obi-Wan closed his eyes. Shifting his lightsaber into his right hand, he allowed his left to fall to his side. His fingers twitched almost imperceptibly; he could see through his closed eyelids a thin golden thread stretching upward from them to the ceiling, pulsing with energy.

He clenched his fist, and the world around them changed. 

In an instant, light and heat flowed into the observatory, radiating from the dome-shaped ceiling. From behind closed eyes, Obi-Wan’s world turned from a dull black into an intensely glowing red. He could feel the warmth of the desert sun on his skin. 

Several paces in front of him, the Zabrak shrieked in pain and confusion. Obi-Wan took this as his cue—eyes still closed, he rushed toward Maul and swung the borrowed lightsaber. 

The disoriented Sith still managed to block the oncoming blow—though Obi-Wan could keenly sense the presence of only one active blade on the saberstaff. As the Jedi pressed forward, delivering a flurry of sweeping saber attacks, Maul expertly deflected every one. 

Obi-Wan had anticipated this. It didn’t worry him. He didn’t need to strike the Zabrak, he only needed to knock him off balance—which was precisely what was happening. His rush continued, pushing Maul backwards until the Zabrak tripped, falling to the floor of the observatory. As Maul collapsed to the floor, Obi-Wan took one final step forward, bringing the tip of his saber to his adversary’s neck. 

Finally, Obi-Wan opened his eyes. On the floor lay Maul, his saberstaff half activated in one hand—with his other hand, he was shielding his face from the onslaught of illumination. 

Obi-Wan took a moment to glance around the room, squinting as he did so. The observatory ceiling danced with painfully white light, as if the Jedi and Sith were somehow fighting at the core of a star. A smirk crossed his face, and he glanced back down at Maul. “Gotcha.” 

A sinister scowl formed as Maul lowered his hand from his face—the Zabrak’s yellowed eyes were reddened in apparent pain, their pupils dilated to near pinpoints. He made a fist with his free hand and shook his head. “Shut up,” he growled. 

The ceiling shattered. 

Instinctively, Obi-Wan took a step back from Maul, raising a hand to mentally divert the falling shards of the observatory dome. The sudden change from harsh brightness to near-total dark left him unable to see, afterimages washing across his vision like some glowing, immaterial paint. An otherworldly shriek pierced his senses, and he heard the telltale sound of Maul’s second saberstaff blade springing back to life. 

The Force shouted a warning, and Obi-Wan brought his emerald blade up into a guard position just in time to catch an oncoming slash from Maul. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the Zabrak’s seething expression in the red and green glow of their clashing blades.  

Maul leapt backward, flourishing his saberstaff in a twirling motion as he planted his feet on the observatory deck. With the dome ceiling destroyed, the duelists were now exposed to the outside—the chilled twilight breeze of Serenno sent ripples through Maul’s cloak. 

“Useless parlor tricks,” Maul hissed. “You need to learn when to talk and when to kill.” 

“At least this time we’re on even footing,” Obi-Wan said, wincing as he remembered his previous duel with the Sith Lord.  _ For now,  _ he silently added, calling out through the Force to his fellow Jedi Knights. 

_ Anakin? Qui-Gon? I might need some help on this one.  _

 

* * *

 

“Little busy here,” Qui-Gon Jinn muttered under her breath almost involuntarily—as she spoke, she moved her weight to her back foot and cracked her lightwhip forward. The weapon struck the wall just to the left of Valis, sending a spray of sparks into the admiral’s face. 

“What was that?” the admiral taunted, flourishing her saber—the scatter of glowing embers seemed not to faze her. 

“Nothing,” Qui-Gon said. “Just talking to myself.” As she pulled the whip back toward her, it etched a glowing scar into the rusted metal floor of the undercity. 

Qui-Gon and Valis had spent the last several minutes fighting their way through the dimly lit bowels of an evacuated Serennan building, with neither duelist gaining much advantage over the other. Valis had quickly figured out the cane whip’s gimmick, much to Qui-Gon’s dismay—the admiral had learned to keep her distance, and most whip cracks had landed just shy of their mark. 

Qui-Gon risked a quick glance behind her. As she had suspected, fighting with a lightwhip was much less precise than using a standard Jedi weapon. The narrow maintenance corridor they’d come through was littered with glowing scars—places where the whip had failed to strike Valis and instead hit the wall. Of course, the way the fight had played out thus far had its upsides—as long as Valis kept her distance, she wasn’t close enough to Qui-Gon to actually hit her with a lightsaber.  _ We’ll end up taking quite the tour of the city before anyone’s managed to get a hit in. _

Pressing forward with another crack of her whip, Qui-Gon guided her opponent toward the end of the corridor. The pair had reached a sort of lobby—though in no better condition than the rest of the rusted, dimly lit maintenance level, it was much more spacious than the tight access halls. Set into one end of the room was a pair of service elevators—one taped over with an “Out of Order” sign. 

Twisting her wrist and mentally coaxing the length of cane whip back to her, Qui-Gon took a pronounced step toward Valis. She could see a skeptical smirk forming on the admiral’s face—this quickly morphed into a harsh laugh as Qui-Gon’s footfall carried her forward too far. Her leg had not been ready to take her full weight, and she was tripping. 

Fortunately, this had been a calculated stumble. As her weight carried her forward, she lashed out with the whip—and this time, she did not miss. 

The alternating sections of metal and shining emerald energy smacked into Valis’ shoulder—the admiral swore loudly, batting away the whip with her crimson blade. 

“Isn’t pain supposed to fuel the dark side?” Qui-Gon asked conversationally, looking at the sizzling wound on the admiral’s shoulder with no small amount of satisfaction. She cracked her whip against the floor. “I look forward to dealing with a worthy opponent.” 

In an instant, Valis was all over her. The admiral rushed forward with an aggressive flurry of lightsaber attacks, pushing her Jedi opponent backwards. Qui-Gon flailed the whip desperately in an attempt to deflect the oncoming lightsaber blows. It was at this moment she realized she’d never attempted to use the flexible weapon as a defensive tool before—and it wasn’t well suited to it.

She ducked left and right as she hurriedly stepped backward, resorting to moving her body so she could avoid the blood-red saber blade. Then, as she was mid-stride, the space around her lurched. 

Qui-Gon was thrown backward into the service turbolift, Valis nearly falling on top of her as she too stumbled into the lift car. Without thinking, Qui-Gon mentally reached toward the control panel, depressing the “up” button. In an instant the lift doors slammed shut and the car rocketed upward. 

“Did you feel that?” Qui-Gon asked as she hauled herself to her feet. “The city’s moving again. Your station is going to have to get a better gunner.” 

“No matter. Always found the thing pointless,” Valis replied with a shrug, standing tall and flourishing her lightsaber. “That’s what I’m here for.” She brought her blade into a defensive position, raising an eyebrow at Qui-Gon as if inviting her to make the next move. 

For a moment, the Jedi simply stood there, opening herself and letting the Force flow in. It couldn’t mask the dull ache that was slowly overtaking her body—she’d planned on ending this fight far sooner, and she knew that the pain she’d feel when it was over would be more than enough a punishment for her overconfidence.  _ Just keep it quiet for a while longer, _ she asked.  _ Just let me do this one thing first. _

She cracked the whip, and swung.

The turbolift car was larger than most, clearly designed to transport Serenno’s mining droids—but it did not make for spacious fighting quarters. As the Jedi and the admiral traded blows, whip and saber alike dug orange gashes into the metallic wall paneling. Qui-Gon barked in surprise more than hurt as one of her strikes curled back on itself, the tip of her own lightwhip grazing her shoulder.

Ducking to avoid a thrust from Valis, she reversed her grip on the whip’s handle. With a flick of her wrist she sent the chain of metal and energy outward—as it collided with Valis’ blade, the chain wrapped around the crimson rod of plasma several times. 

Valis’ eyes widened in surprise, as did Qui-Gon’s. The pair froze in place for a moment—just then, the turbolift doors slid open. 

With a devilish grin, Qui-Gon yanked her whole body in the direction of the open doors. The tangled cane whip tore Valis’ lightsaber free of her hands—as the weapon shut itself off, the metal hilt clattered across the floor. Winding the whip up for another strike, Qui-Gon lashed at the floor of the elevator, only to strike just behind Valis’ heels as she dove out of the turbolift after her lost weapon. 

Clambering across the floor after her opponent, Qui-Gon exited the turbolift. As she hauled herself to her feet, she took a moment to look around. They had arrived in the evacuated building’s foyer—it appeared to be an office complex. An opulent chandelier hung overhead, and leather-clad sofas and chairs sat clustered around glass tables littered with holomagazines. A massive panoramic window provided a view of Stratum Apolune. In the center of the opposite wall there was a large, gently curving reception desk—above it hung the words “Mining Operations and Administration Center.” 

Qui-Gon diverted her attention from the reception desk back to Valis, who was standing in the center of the lobby, brandishing a deactivated lightsaber hilt. 

“You wish to fight with trick weapons?” the admiral shouted, taking slow paces toward Qui-Gon.  “Two can play at that game.” 

The telltale sound of an activating lightsaber echoed throughout the cavernous lobby—and yet, to Qui-Gon’s ears, it was somehow  _ different _ . The crackle of energy was mixed with the sound of someone dragging a knife across metal. Valis’ blade, too, seemed different now. Gone was the cylindrical crimson lightsaber’s glow, replaced with something much narrower—more akin to a vibrosword. It had lost its brilliant red color and now glowed a burnt orange. 

As Valis took another step forward, she held the weapon out. No longer was there one blade emerging from the hilt. There were two—the second, extending from the hilt’s pommel, was more akin to a shortsword or dagger. 

“You’ve taken after Maul, I see,” Qui-Gon said, shifting her grip on her own weapon. She smacked the tip of the cane into the floor, and the weapon sizzled with life. 

Valis said nothing. Holding the double-bladed weapon in front of her face, she placed both hands on the grip. She yanked the hilt apart—it split in two with a great  _ ring,  _ leaving the sword portion in her dominant hand and the dagger in her other. 

The newly armed admiral rushed toward Qui-Gon, but before she reached her, a great explosion rocked the lobby. The panoramic window shattered inward, spraying both combatants with a rain of transparisteel. Qui-Gon was thrown to the floor, and darkness enveloped everything. 

 

* * *

 

Jesmyn saw the impact before they felt it—a hot white flash illuminated the control room milliseconds before the rumbling sound of an explosion rattled the window. In a panic, their hands flew across the command table.  _ What the hell just happened? _

“Impact Alert” flashed in bold letters above the wireframe city, as if the computer had read Jesmyn’s mind. One of the towers in the image went from white to a deep red. 

_ “Jesmyn,”  _ a voice sounded over the intercom, “ _ what was that?”  _ It was Lorian, speaking in a whisper. 

_ Probably so Dooku won’t hear,  _ the Arkanian thought—they were rather relieved that the Viscount had been the one to call. 

“An explosion in Mining Ops and Admin,” Jesmyn replied, their eyes still darting across the holographic display in search of answers. “It’s . . . oh, dammit, it got grazed by a bloody Lancer shot.” 

“ _ I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to hit us anymore,”  _ another voice said—Amidala, who unlike Lorian was not worrying about keeping her voice down.  __

“Looks like they got lucky,” Jesmyn said. “It was an indirect hit, at least. I’ll see what sort of damage control I can do from here.” 

Silently thanking the stars that the affected building had long since been evacuated, Jesmyn keyed off the intercom. They poked the flashing red holographic building with an extended finger, causing it to expand to fill the entire projection. In that moment, the droidsmith’s heart sank. 

The Mining Operations and Administration building was not, in fact, unoccupied. A small line of text beneath the building’s image indicated that there were currently two people inside. The first occupant was simply listed as  _ Human - Unknown _ . The second was  _ Madame Qui-Gon Jinn _ . 

“No,” Jesmyn muttered under their breath, turning away from the control table and sprinting towards the nearest window. “No, please, no.” 

They arrived at the window just in time to see the Mining Ops and Admin building begin to list sideways. At the base of the tower, a gout of flame was pouring directly downward—and the skyscraper was keeling over toward the rest of Stratum Apolune. 

 

* * *

 

Anakin Skywalker’s world was a void of pure white which stretched to infinity. In that void were three things: himself, Tyyria Nox, and Stratum Apolune’s primary suspension engine. A jumbled mess of wires wrapped around a kyber crystal hung from the engine—what was left of the lightsaber’s inner workings glowed gently as both he and Tyyria meditated over it. Their hands were outstretched in the contraption’s direction; as spurts of energy shot out from the crystal, each Jedi gently coaxed them back. 

Time had no meaning here. He and Tyyria would sit before the suspension engine until they no longer needed to, in harmony and communion with the living source of energy that was keeping the city aloft and in motion. This was the most important task. Nothing else mattered. 

_ HELP _

Anakin shook the stray thought from his head. Of course his fellow Jedi could use help. There was a battle above—no, a war. One that stretched back as far as time itself. The war between light and dark. 

_ DANGER _

He gritted his teeth.  _ The most important thing is for you to stay here,  _ he thought to himself—though he wasn’t convinced. A creeping fear slithered inside his gut. Obi-Wan wasn’t safe. Neither was Qui-Gon. They needed him. Now. 

_ DEATH _

The void of white melted. Anakin was in the engine room again, seated on the floor beside his fellow Jedi. He was drenched in sweat. His flesh hand was shaking. His mechanical one had an iron grip on the hilt of his lightsaber. 

Rising to his feet, Anakin turned toward the door. “I have to go help them. They’re in danger.” 

This seemed to pull Tyyria from her own meditation with the kyber crystal. “Obi-Wan?” 

“And Qui-Gon,” Anakin replied. “They both need help.”

“Do you need me to come?” 

“I’ll handle it,” he said, holding out a hand to stop her from getting up. “Someone has to stay here with the engine. “Besides,” he said, forcing himself to put on an approximation of a smile, “your lightsaber’s kind of . . . occupied.” 

Tyyria shrugged. “Fair enough. Not sure I’d be much use in a fight anyway.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and she stretched both hands out toward the suspension engine. “May the Force be with you.” 

“You too,” Anakin muttered, spinning on a heel and bolting out the engine room door. 

As he ran toward the service elevator, a flash of pain flared up in his mind. Someone was hurting. It was up to him to help. 

The slithering fear reared its head again. Forcing it down, he gritted his teeth and activated his lightsaber, slamming his other hand on the service elevator’s control panel. 

Something twitched at the back of his mind—nervousness, or some kind of warning premonition—but he shoved it aside. Only one thing mattered now.  _ I have to stop Maul before he hurts them again.  _

_ I have to.  _


	53. Burn Out

A fierce pain bloomed in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s right arm, followed by the sickening image of sparks flying from a scorch mark along his sleeve. It wasn’t a severe injury—the cut had gone shallow—but it  _ hurt _ , and the wind was howling hard enough that his lightsaber felt as though it would be ripped from his hands whenever a strong gust came along.

He and Maul were outside, scrimmaging back and forth, and the Zabrak was in control now, driving the Jedi back the way he’d come—toward the palace complex. Obi-Wan let the Sith Lord push, retreating at a steady pace and parrying only when giving ground wasn’t an option. The only way to deal with the saberstaff, the Jedi knew from their last fight, was a highly kinetic approach—keep Maul on the back foot as much as possible, and block strikes rather than redirecting them to keep the second blade from weaving back into things—but the Zabrak’s reserves of physical strength ran far beyond Obi-Wan’s. He’d have to wait, spend his energy when it counted.

And now, it seemed, keep track of a weakened right arm as well.  _ Wonderful. _

Another swipe from the saberstaff whirred toward his head—he ducked and gave a retaliatory cut to Maul’s leg, which was met by the second blade. The Zabrak wasn’t speaking anymore, simply leering, his eyes shining with malicious joy—he knew as well as Obi-Wan that the observatory ruse had been the moment the Jedi should have finished him off. On even ground, the Sith was his superior.

Maul tensed his back foot, and then all of a sudden he was no longer in front of Obi-Wan but  _ above  _ him, driving his staff downward to spear him through the top of the skull. The Jedi was forced to duck, turn that into a roll to avoid falling on his face, and then whirl around to block a thrust that would otherwise have skewered him through the spine. Maul disengaged, then threw out his left hand—a howl of rushing air, moving  _ against _ the wind, slammed into Obi-Wan, sending him skidding a good several feet and reeling as he approached the platform’s edge.

The Jedi threw out a wildly summoned shield of Force energy to absorb the rest of the blow before it could knock him over, then reached outward into the air currents rushing past them. Rather than launching his own psychic attack, he grasped the already-present wind in his hand and hurled it forward like a javelin. The glee in Maul’s face turned to frustration as he himself was sent sprawling backward. One of his saber blades winked out to avoid self-injury—then he tottered, steadied, and reactivated it.

But Obi-Wan had regained his footing. And the Zabrak’s leap over his head had an unforeseen consequence.

Now the general was in a position to do the driving back.

With a burst of Force-assisted speed, he slammed into Maul, the Zabrak’s last-second block faltering enough that Obi-Wan was able to twist the blade backward and nearly scorch its owner’s shoulder. He jerked the pommel of his backup saber upward, nicking his enemy’s chin too softly to do any real damage but hard enough to hurt.

Maul quickstepped backward, his twin blades buzzing like frenzied wasps as he wove a defensive pattern. He opened his mouth—to spit or to launch some taunt, Obi-Wan didn’t have the chance to find out.

Before the Zabrak could speak, a sky-blue beam of plasma drove at his back.

As Maul contorted himself into a last-minute turn to redirect the thrust, Obi-Wan felt a savage joy rise within him. He’d been too focused on the fight to sense the new arrival—as had Maul, it appeared.

For a moment, the general simply stood there, watching. He’d seen Anakin fight dozens of times before—had sparred with him in hundreds of training sessions—but he’d never had the chance to watch him go blade-to-blade with another person before.

He was a natural.

There was no other way to describe it—the lightsaber was a complete extension of his arm, the metal of its hilt bleeding into the metal of his hand so they seemed to be one entity. He didn’t have the light touch required for parrying, but he didn’t need it—he wielded the saber like a longsword, hammering away at Maul with relentless blows that the saberstaff simply wasn’t designed to take head on. The Zabrak was a tower standing against a hurricane of blue.

Obi-Wan moved in from the rear, and Maul sensed him coming in time to twist out of the way of a jab at his back, only to immediately have to duck to avoid a whipcrack of an overhead slice from Anakin’s blade, and by that time Obi-Wan had angled to the left to get another attack in, one that Maul was forced to practically  _ trip _ to avoid. Once again, the Zabrak rocketed upward in a Force-propelled leap, but there was no stratagem behind this one, no maneuver designed to give him an advantage, just a thoughtless panicked flight from danger.

As the Sith lord touched down several meters away, Obi-Wan drew up alongside Anakin. “I see one of us got our job done, anyway.”

Anakin bared his teeth in an expression very close to Maul’s feral leer, looking not at Obi-Wan but at their enemy as he angled his saberstaff in a defensive posture. “Whaddya say we finish this one together?”

Before Obi-Wan could reply, a gout of flame roared upward into the sky. Jedi and Sith alike turned to watch as a tower several platforms distant went up in smoke, wreathed with flickering tongues of orange.  _ A Lancer hit,  _ the general realized.  _ Must have grazed us. _

There was no time to worry about it now. He and Anakin had to focus on finishing what they could finish.

With one fluid motion, the two men raised their sabers, angling blue and green forward in simultaneous challenge. Maul’s yellow eyes darted from one blade to the other, a snarl twisting his face.

All three charged at once.

Underneath the howling wind, the speed of the city’s movement nearly drowning it out, plasma crackled against plasma.

 

* * *

 

Valis hit her head hard enough as she fell that under other circumstances she might have blacked out, but the shriek of pain her injured shoulder gave as it hit the ground jolted her back into consciousness.

Jinn was struggling back to her feet as well, her whip returned to its rigid form. Valis would have been perfectly happy to reactivate her lightsaber blades and kill the Jedi right here, but both of them, she realized, had bigger worries.

Chief among them that the floor seemed to be moving.

Debris from the shattered windows was slowly sliding as the building tilted toward a steeper angle—Valis wobbled and grabbed onto a wall fixture, and Jinn almost tumbled over again before doing the same. An overwhelming smell of smoke filled the air, along with a sensation of distant heat.

In between labored breaths, Jinn managed to chide, “Didn’t you tell . . . your toy up there . . . not to  _ shoot at you _ ?”

Rather than answering, Valis returned her saber’s twin hilts to her belt and lunged for the gaping hole that had once been a window. If the tower they were in was going to fall, she had no intention of being inside for the collision.

It was all she could do to cling to the ledge of the blasted-out window once she’d clambered outside—the tower was falling at an almost leisurely pace, enough that it was still far too vertical for her to attempt standing on.  _ Blasted Serennan engineers, couldn’t they have cut a few corners in structural support?  _ Wrapping herself in a shield of Force energy to prevent the wind from buffeting her off the ledge, Valis held on with all her strength.

Moments later, the admiral glanced to her left just in time to see a familiar face pop up the next window over. Jinn’s legs flailed wildly, and she’d stuck her cane through her belt in a manner that looked as precarious as it must have been uncomfortable. As she struggled to keep her grip on her own ledge, the Jedi looked over at Valis and, in a display of perversity that far exceeded anything Maul had even come close to,  _ grinned _ . “Fancy meeting you here!”

Valis felt her quivering arm muscles relax by a bare degree as the tower’s descent began to speed up, the wall beneath her inching toward becoming a floor. Snarling, she waved a hand and sent a blast of dark power in what she hoped was Jinn’s direction, but the Jedi failed to fall from her perch.

_ If I am going to die because of Threll and Mekosk’s idiotic space station, I am at least going to take this woman along with me. _

This was, Valis immediately realized, a very Maul-like thought. The realization was enough to give her pause.

Shouting to be heard above the howling wind, Jinn said, “Admiral, are we agreed that both of us dying when this thing finally topples over is a lose-lose situation?”

_ Just  _ die _ , for god’s sake.  _ Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on her fingers, Valis felt with her booted feet to see if she could yet risk standing on the inclined wall. Damn, no, it was still too steep.

“Even if you manage to start running along this thing as it falls,” the Jedi continued, cheerfully laying out the obvious, “you won’t be able to jump to safety before impact. And even though  _ I _ have a grappling gun, I won’t be able to haul myself across this tower quickly enough to use it.”

Valis snapped her attention back toward the Jedi, who was hanging a good measure further from her window than the admiral was from hers. “You’ve got a  _ what _ ?”

“Temple quartermasters, accept no substitutes!” She slipped another inch or so, and, to Valis’s extreme satisfaction, began speaking a good deal more quickly. “As I said, it’s a lose-lose. But if you were to keep your swords powered down, and I were to keep my cane a cane, and we were able to get into position  _ together _ . . .”

Maul would never have done it. He would have hurled his lightsaber at Jinn like a javelin to silence her, or let himself slip into the depths of the moon’s atmosphere just to spite her.

Valis knew who she was. And she was not Darth Maul.

The tower gave a shuddering death-spasm and groaned from its metal bones outward. Valis tensed her toes against the structure, summoned as much strength as she could muster, and pushed off, then angled her feet to slam down against the wall as she used her arms to thrust herself backward off the ledge.

An ordinary human would have toppled backward, sliding down the incline of the wall to land like a ragdoll on the platform below or plummet into the atmosphere.

But the Force was with her, locking her into a standing position, keeping her feet in place against the metal below them. Sephone Valis gasped for air, reeled, almost slipped from sheer fear. Then she willed it downward, and began to jog as fast as she could across the buckling tower.

Toward Jinn.

Sweat was pouring off the Jedi’s face from the exertion of keeping her grip on the window ledge, but she was positively beaming as she watched the admiral approach. “I knew you’d see sense!”

“Shut up, you obnoxious bitch,” Valis spat, and extended her hand.

 

* * *

 

For a moment early on, Anakin had dared to think he had Maul on the back foot, that he’d be able to end this single-handed. In the lull, though, the Zabrak had gathered himself back together—and now that he was no longer fighting through surprise and panic, he was a demon, his dual saber weaving a latticework of potential death as he jabbed and sliced and generally did his best to keep the two Jedi the hell away from him.

Add to that the fact that, since Maul was so damn  _ fast _ , Anakin and his master were having to keep their footwork nimble just to stay out of each other’s way. The Sith lord darted back and forth, opening himself to outrageous danger because he knew if Obi-Wan swung he would risk decapitating his own apprentice, or if Anakin thrust  _ there _ he would impale the general on his lightsaber. More than anything, the young Jedi wanted the fight to come naturally, just him and his lightsaber and Maul, but he had to keep up a constant mental model of where Obi-Wan was at any given time, and it was kind of exhausting.

All that considered, though, it was going well. Maul couldn’t focus on the offensive when trying to keep the two of them at bay, and with a pair of opponents to deal with he could only leverage one blade against one enemy. It’d be foolish to underestimate him, and yet, Anakin admitted to himself,  _ this is almost fun. _

He caught the Zabrak’s left blade in a block and slid in close, locking it down. At the same time, Obi-Wan came in from the right, slashing at Maul’s waist—unable to free his saberstaff, the Sith was forced to lash out in a kick that knocked Obi-Wan’s wrist off course, then wrench himself closer to Anakin as a shield.

Baring his teeth in a grin, Anakin bore down harder on Maul’s locked blade, slowly bending the Zabrak’s wrist toward a fracture. Maul struggled mightily, his eyes bulging with furious effort, but he was slighter in build than Anakin, and the Jedi’s mechanical hand gave him added strength. Anakin pressed down harder, harder, felt the Zabrak’s wrist begin to feather toward a break—

At which point Maul deactivated his saber blade, whirled sideways to avoid Anakin’s sudden lurch forward, and slammed his horns into the Jedi’s skull.

Anakin let his fall carry him all the way down, somersaulting to get clear as Maul’s blade reactivated with a  _ snap-hisssss _ and swung for his midsection. Popping back onto his feet, he watched Obi-Wan pick up the slack, emerald sizzling against scarlet as he forced Maul backward.

For a moment, Anakin simply stood there, breathing deeply—he trusted his master to keep the Zabrak on his toes, and more importantly his head hurt like an utter bastard. A trickle of blood ran down across his right eyelid; he blinked it away, watching as the distant tower that the  _ Lancer _ missile had grazed began to buckle in earnest.

A buzzing was forming in his ears. He shook his head to clear it, but the sensation persisted, and he realized it wasn’t an aftereffect of the headbutt. It was his comm.

Keying it on as he chased after Obi-Wan, he said, “Whoever this is, I’m a little busy right—”

“ _ Anakin, I’m having some trouble here. _ ”

It was Tyyria. And she sounded terrified.

He slid to a halt, forcing his adrenaline to stay bubbling under his skin rather than burst outward into action as he watched his master trade blows with Maul. “Tyyria, what’s going on?”

“ _ The crystal, it’s—I think you leaving so fast might have done something, it’s destabilizing and I can’t make it stop ramping up— _ ”

He tried to reach out to feel the city beneath his feet, to see if anything had gone wrong, but it was the same as it had been for whole minutes now—thrumming with a low, steady hum of energy, rattling from acceleration as the whole of Stratum Apolune sped through the sky. It was simply too big an object, too immense a thing to latch onto when he was distracted—it was like trying to grasp a planet in his fist.

The comm buzzed harder. At first Anakin thought it was another incoming call, but then, to his dawning horror, he realized that it was coming  _ through _ Tyyria’s line. It was the sound of the suspension engine, doing its best not to shake itself apart.

“Get out of there,” he said flatly.

“ _ I think maybe I can—oh  _ shit—”

“Tyyria, get  _ out _ of—”

The earpiece squalled with unbearable sharpness, and then cut out entirely.

A vast shuddering roared into being beneath Anakin’s feet. He was distantly conscious of shouting Tyyria’s name again and again into the comm, with no response.

In the pit of his stomach, a sudden weight burst into being, as though a singularity had formed within him.

It was the Force, whispering a warning that was dire beyond words.

He half-reached for the comm to swap channels, to ask Jesmyn what was going on, but forced his hand back down. Whatever had just happened was beyond his capabilities to fix. Right now, there was only one outcome he could alter.

In the distance, Maul and Obi-Wan continued to fight.

All feeling gone suddenly dead, he raced to join them.

 

* * *

 

The toppling Mining and Operations Building was too far away for Jesmyn to see if Qui-Gon and whoever she was fighting had gotten out. The gout of flame at the base of the tower was gradually vanishing from view as the structure pitched over in torturously slow motion, its structural integrity fighting to hold it up despite the combined forces of an orbital projectile and gravity. For a moment, the Arkanian had the wild thought to call one of the LAAT gunships circling the city and ask if any of them were equipped with fire suppressors, but shoved the idea aside—even in the unlikely event that they did, any efforts would be too little too late.

_ Standing here isn’t going to help anything,  _ they thought to themselves.  _ Get back over to the control map, see if you can make yourself useful there. _ But their eyes were fixed on the disaster happening below, their feet unable to move more than a fraction of a step before resuming their place. The tower tipped another degree, another, another—

The holoprojector squalled like a mother bird discovering a nest full of smashed eggs, an eardrum-shattering cry that drowned out anything but Jesmyn’s sudden, all-consuming desire to make the noise  _ stop _ . Their sheep physical revulsion to the noise broke them out of their reverie; wheeling around, they hastily strode to the table.

The problem wasn’t the toppling tower—it was still deep red, but there were no alert bubbles hovering over it. And nothing else on the map was scarlet—

_ Oh. _

The suspension engine—at the base of the palace platform, almost unnoticeable from the top down—wasn’t red, but it was no longer blue. It was absolute, cold black.

Even as Jesmyn watched, tendrils of ebony began to leak outward from the initial void. They crisscrossed from platform to platform, rose skyward to touch the top of the palace, plunged downward to the base of each facet of the city.

Above the engine, as if the holoprojector had taken several seconds to process what was happening, an alert winked on:  _ Suspension engine nonfunctional. City airworthiness compromised. _

Jesmyn wasn’t conscious of turning off the klaxon, but they must have, because suddenly everything was absolutely drowning in silence. Nor were they aware of their hands wandering to the commlink, but a few moments later the sepulchral quiet was relieved by the quiet hiss of static.

The droidsmith tried to speak, choked, swallowed. Began again. “Nox? Skywalker?  _ Skywalker? _ ”

Nothing.

The holoprojector was nearly covered with obsidian now. The absence of color made it hard to see what was happening, but Jesmyn didn’t need to. They’d worked in this city their whole life, and while they’d never anticipated it—never credited it with the faintest speck of probability—they knew what the consequences of that engine shutting off were.

Stratum Apolune—all of it—had begun to sink.

 

* * *

 

The throne room felt simultaneously too big and too small to  Padmé. Only she and her two charges sat within its expanse, looking, she had a feeling, like dolls in comparison to the statues, the sweeping stained-glass windows, the domed ceiling. But for all the cavernous space that dwarfed them, the room had narrowed their vision to almost nothing. There was no equivalent to the war room’s holoprojector, no way to monitor the rest of the city or the fleet above; only the rear window’s sheet of glass provided a glimpse into the outside world, and that was all dark sky.

Nor were her two companions much inclined to making small talk to relieve the tension of not-knowing. Lorian paced in circles, his footfalls echoing softly throughout the chamber; Dooku sat ramrod-straight in his throne, eyes closed, whether exhausted or meditating Padmé couldn’t say. She stood at a point along the Viscount’s repeated path, her blaster holstered but her bowblade in its sword form gripped in her right hand. Her legs itched to join Lorian in motion, but she had no wish to risk irritating the Count, especially when she was already taking part in a coup.

She’d heard nothing from Jesmyn in the last couple of minutes, which she had to assume meant that either the area that had been grazed by the  _ Lancer _ was under control or nothing could be done for it.  _ So that means all I have to worry about is my friends facing down two Sith Lords. In addition to the fleet upstairs. _

As Lorian’s latest orbit around the room neared her, he leaned in and half-whispered, “How do you think they’re doing?”

Giving him her honest opinion— _ Obi-Wan didn’t beat Maul last time, and Qui-Gon is, well, using a cane— _ didn’t strike Padmé as the kindest thing to do right now. “They can handle themselves. And if they . . . can’t handle things, and the Sith get close to the palace, we’ve got my ship standing by for evac. You and Dooku will be safe, I promise.”

The Viscount nodded. Then, to Padmé’s surprise, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You know, part of me feels like I should try to make conversation with you. Ask you questions about your life, tell you about the palace. I’m sorry not to be doing that, it just seems . . .”

“Pointless?” she finished for him, not unkindly. “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Viscount. I’m not really a sentimentalist.”

Nodding gratefully, he let his hand fall away. “If we  _ do _ get out of this,” he said, “I’d be happy to show you around the—”

Dooku’s eyes snapped open.

It was such a small gesture, and at such a distance, that it shouldn’t have been able to grab Padmé’s attention, but somehow it drew her and Lorian’s eyes immediately. The snippet of wood at her breast seemed to give off a pulse of cold—the room’s entire tenor had changed, as though the Count returning to awareness had summoned something terrible.

His lips moved, but Padmé couldn’t make out what they said. It was a single word, and as Dooku spoke it his face fell white.

A moment later, a klaxon’s bellow rang through the throne room.

Padmé resisted the urge to clap her hands to her ears, to do anything to muffle the piercing shriek, but it was a near thing—the sound burrowed into her skull, making sure its urgent wail was the sole thing anyone could perceive. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds—then, just as abruptly as it had come, it stopped.

Shaking her head to clear the ringing, she turned to look at Lorian. “What the hell does that mean?”

The Viscount, like his husband, had gone entirely white, his aged hands trembling. He locked eyes with Padmé, but seemed unable to speak.

“ _ Viscount _ , what did that—”

“The suspension engine,” Lorian managed, licking frantically at his lips to moisten them. “It’s died.”

Her stomach twisted in on itself, and she gripped her bowblade’s hilt hard enough for it to hurt, but she forced her voice to stay steady. “And that means—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dooku bolt.

He moved with the speed of a much younger man, cape flapping behind him as he ran, a sight so startling that it took Padmé far too long to react. Still, she managed to get in front of him before he could jag past her, whipping her blade into position a hand’s breadth from his face.

“All due respect, Count,” she said, “I’d really rather not have to—”

Dooku twitched his hand, and before Padmé’s brain could process precisely what was happening she found herself sliding across the floor, her weapon clattering useless to the tile.

She tried to rise, but found that with the air completely knocked from her lungs this was not going to be possible. With a gasp, she sucked in as much as she could muster, rolled over on her side, and clutched for her bowblade.

By the time she’d managed to pick it up, Dooku was vanishing through the broad double doors at the other side of the throne room.

Something gripped her free hand and hauled her upright with shocking strength—it was Lorian, she saw, hands possessed of an iron grip she wouldn’t have guessed him capable of. “You have to go get him.”

“What the hell is he  _ doing _ ?” she asked, clutching at her side and wincing.

“The city,” Lorian said bluntly, “is going to sink. All of it. We have minutes at best, and there’s absolutely nothing that can be done to reverse it. Whatever your husband and Madam Nox have done overloaded the engine, and that’s that.”

She wanted to protest that there must be some mistake, that Anakin would never have allowed things to come apart so badly, but Lorian’s eyes were filled with an utter, final certainty that would bear no questioning.

“But . . . but that means—”

“Yes,” said Lorian simply. “Thousands and thousands of people are going to die.”

Not  _ might _ . Not  _ will probably _ .  _ Are going to. _

All the Viscount’s prior awkwardness and anxiety were gone now, as if this last stroke of doom had pulled them from him. “Give me your commlink,” he said, “ and go after him. I’ll call in your ship, and tell it to pick us up—you, me, and Dooku. If you can find General Kenobi or your husband or anyone else important to you along the way, good. Otherwise, I’ll see if I can get your gunships to pick them up before . . .” He closed his eyes, and for a moment Padmé was terrified that he was going to drop dead right there, but then he opened them again and gazed at her with slate-grey irises. “Before the end.”

There were so many things fighting within her brain to be said. She settled on croaking out hoarsely, “What does he intend to do?”

“Dooku? His utmost, whatever that means. But it won’t be enough.” Stepping back, Lorian gestured at the parted throne room doors. “Please, Madam Amidala, while you still can.”

She could have given him a final word of hope, or prayer, or comfort. She could have told him that somehow, in spite of everything, things were going to be all right. But even though she’d married Anakin Skywalker and seen inside the Jedi Temple and cheated death a million times before, she was Padmé Amidala, and she knew hope had its limits.

Wordlessly, she tossed the Viscount her commlink. With the same hand, she reached up to touch the snippet of wood around her neck.

Then she sheathed her sword, and sprinted out into the end of the world.


	54. Fall Apart

Qui-Gon Jinn’s lungs were on fire. Her back screamed at her to stop moving, her legs burned. Most of all, her arm hurt—though Admiral Valis had run up the length of the falling skyscraper, Qui-Gon had to be dragged along it. As she and her opponent-turned-partner reached the peak of the tilting tower, relief washed over the Jedi. 

What was now a nearly level floor beneath them had once been a sweeping office window—the furniture and decor within had all piled against the back wall as the skyscraper had come to lay on its side. Before Qui-Gon, the peak of the skyscraper stairstepped downward, converging into a point before stretching outward. The tower was topped with some sort of communications spire—a metal beam affixed with dishes and antennae and blinking lights. 

“Your plan,” a weary Valis said between deep breaths, “was worthless, Jedi.” Spreading her arms wide, the admiral indicated either side of the floating skyscraper’s peak. 

To their left, another tower stood—this one perfectly vertical, its base cocooned in some sort of construction scaffolding. A perfect anchor point, if Qui-Gon had ever seen one, save for a significant issue: it was much too far away to reach, even with her grappling hook. To their right there was nothing but the abyss of open sky.

“Nowhere to go,” Valis continued. Reaching for the lightsaber clipped to her belt, the admiral shook her head. “Let’s end this here.” 

“Wait!” Qui-Gon said, holding up a hand just as Valis’ fingertips brushed her lightsaber hilt. Withdrawing her cane from its improvised belt sheath, she leaned into it to stand tall. “You got me this far. You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Let me fulfill mine.” 

Valis moved her hand away from her lightsaber, but shook her head at the same time. “This grappling device of yours. Where is it?” 

Wordlessly, Qui-Gon pulled a sleeve of her coat up far enough to reveal the wrist-mounted grappler. 

“That’s what I feared,” Valis continued. “No wrist grappler has nearly enough cord to reach that far.” She gestured toward the only nearby tower. 

“Good thing it doesn’t have to reach that far, then.” Shuffling past Valis, Qui-Gon extended her arm. A thin length of cord shot out from the bracer beneath her sleeve,  _ clinking  _ against the peak of the comm spire at the tip of the skyscraper. She tugged the cord—satisfied that it wasn’t going anywhere, she returned her cane to her belt and motioned to Valis. “C’mon.” 

“I’m sorry, but what exactly is your plan here?” 

Qui-Gon grinned and pointed to where she’d attached the grappling hook. “That’s our anchor point. We’re going to jump off this way—”

“ _ Away  _ from the other tower?” Valis interrupted. 

“Yes,” Qui-Gon replied. She swept her arm in a downward arc. “Like a pendulum. Let gravity do the work.” 

“That,” Valis began, raising an eyebrow as she spoke, “is completely insane.” 

Beneath their feet, the building lurched, tipping several degrees. Before long, Qui-Gon knew, its peak would be pointing downward—and the Jedi and the admiral would be sliding into the depths.

“Well, we can’t stay here,” she said, the pace of her words quickening as she backed away from the ledge. “You coming or not?” 

With a roll of her eyes, Valis moved toward Qui-Gon, wrapping her arms around the Jedi in an uncomfortable hug. “Let’s get this over with.” 

The Jedi’s eyes fluttered shut, and she called on the Force for strength. The pain in her back dulled slightly—it wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Willing her weary legs to move, Qui-Gon bolted for the edge of the toppling skyscraper. As she neared the precipice, it took all her mental fortitude not to stop short—this was, perhaps, the craziest thing she’d ever done. 

Then, in an instant, she was standing over nothing. Her heart lurched into her throat as she entered freefall, the wind whipping her coat and hair about. She felt a tense squeeze around her ribcage as Valis tightened her grip. A handful of seconds felt like an eternity as the pair glided over the expanse of clouds. 

With a  _ twang _ , the grapple cord tightened, and Qui-Gon and Valis were yanked back in the other direction. The ache in Qui-Gon’s arm flared into outright pain—gritting her teeth, she tensed her muscles and willed herself through it. 

The arc of their swing sent Qui-Gon’s stomach lurching up, then back down. She was operating on autopilot now, not thinking, guided by the urgings of the Force. It spoke to her— _ now! _ —and she nudged the hook of the grappling cord with her mind. It uncoupled itself from its anchor at the tip of the skyscraper, and with a heave of her arm she sent the hook flying toward the cluster of scaffolding at the base of the upright tower. 

The wind—or perhaps Valis—shrieked in her ears as the grappling hook flew through the air. They were attached to nothing now, hanging amongst the clouds with no anchor to safety. The moment seemed to last forever. Her perception of time, slowed by the Force and the rush of adrenaline, allowed her to watch as the grappling hook wrapped itself around a metal pipe. 

A maniacal laugh, twisted by the adrenaline coursing through her veins, escaped Qui-Gon’s mouth.  _ We did it,  _ she thought to herself. 

The pair hung there like a spider spinning a thread, drifting back and forth in the wind of Serenno. Qui-Gon could feel movement as Valis once again adjusted her grip. “Now what?” the admiral asked. 

“I pull us up,” Qui-Gon answered. Gritting her teeth, she willed the grappling bracer to retract its cord. The wrist-mounted device creaked and groaned in protest—though powered by the mind of a Jedi rather than mechanical energy, the grappling hook was still only meant to hold one person.  _ Please don’t snap, please don’t snap,  _ Qui-Gon silently urged it. 

The cord didn’t snap. The metal pipe it was attached to did. 

“Oh crap!” As Qui-Gon and Valis plunged downward, the Jedi instinctively flicked her wrist, praying the grappling hook would find another spot to latch on to. A jolt traveling through her arm confirmed it had—it was precariously snagged against another piece of metal piping attached to the base of the floating skyscraper. 

“Help me reel this in!” Qui-Gon shouted, willing the grappling hook to retract. As the breeze sent the pair swaying back and forth, Valis silently tilted her gaze skyward. Qui-Gon felt the bracer on her wrist shift slightly, and suddenly the pair were rising upward twice as quickly as they had been.

She hadn’t told Valis how to operate the grappling bracer. The admiral hadn’t asked what to do. She’d just done it. Qui-Gon wanted to be impressed—but she reminded herself that once this was over and they were on solid ground, Valis was no longer an ally. 

As they neared their destination, Qui-Gon felt Valis loosen her iron grip.  _ Preparing to fight, are we?  _ she thought—she did the same, lowering her hand to the handle of her cane. Moments before the grappling hook had fully retracted into the wrist-mounted bracer, Valis sprung away from Qui-Gon, planting both feet on the deck of the construction scaffold and whirling around to face the Jedi. The admiral’s lightsaber hilt flew from her belt to her palm, both ends springing to life in midair. 

Putting on a mischievous grin to hide her soreness, Qui-Gon rose to her full height and withdrew her cane—with a flick of the wrist, its segments separated and green strands of energy crackled back to life. “Must we? We were getting along so well.”

The duelists stepped forward, and lightwhip clashed with lightsaber once again. 

 

* * *

 

Padmé Amidala bounded down another set of stairs within the palace of Stratum Apolune, taking several steps at a time. She shook her head in disappointment as her feet smacked against the stone landing—an old man had outrun her.  _ Then again,  _ she thought,  _ he knows this place a hell of a lot better than you do _ . 

She emerged from the stairwell into a grandiose hallway. Glancing to her left, then to the right, Padmé desperately searched the corridor for any sign of the fleeing Dooku. A waving curtain, or an open door, or an out of place piece of furniture. A deep sigh escaped her mouth. There was no evidence anyone had even been in the hallway at all. 

Cursing under her breath, she moved across the corridor to a window—sheathing her bowblade, she placed one hand flat against the transparisteel and extracted a comlink from her belt with the other. 

“Jesmyn?” she said into the comm; as she waited for a response, she leaned against the window pane and stared out into the night sky. 

_ “Go ahead,”  _ came the droidsmith’s reply. 

“Can you track people with that city display of yours? I need to know where Dooku is.” 

_ “You were outrun by a man in his seventies?”  _

“A former Jedi in his seventies,” Padmé snapped back, rolling her eyes. “One who knows this palace a hell of a lot better than I do.” 

There was a staticky silence on the comm for several seconds. “ _ He’s still in the palace building,”  _ Jesmyn replied.  _ “Can’t be any more specific than that, I’m afraid.”  _

Padmé gritted her teeth. “That’s fine, I’ll track him down.” She pulled her hand away from the window and drew her weapon from its place on her back, taking one more glance out the window. 

What she saw caused her heart to skip a beat. 

“Uh, Jesmyn? DId another tower get hit?” 

_ “Hit?”  _

“The Lancer. Has it hit a city platform again?” 

_ “Not that I can tell,”  _ they replied.  _ “We would’ve felt the impact from here.”  _

Padmé took a deep breath. “So why is another tower tipping over?” In the distance she could make out another of Stratum Apolune’s floating skyscrapers beginning to list sideways, its peak no longer pointing directly into the sky. 

_ “It’s starting.”  _ The Arkanian’s voice shook as they spoke.  _ “The towers are falling now. This will likely start at the outer edge of the city and work its way inward.”  _

“Inward . . . toward the palace, you mean?” 

Jesmyn did not answer. They didn’t have to. 

Steadying a shaky hand, Padmé raised the comm closer to her lips and spoke in an unnecessary whisper. “We can’t save everyone,” she began, “but we have a ship standing by. We should evacuate Lorian and Dooku, at least. He’s standing by to call in Liz, but I don’t know if she’ll necessarily listen to—” 

_ “Agreed,”  _ the droidsmith replied almost instantly, cutting across her.  _ “I’ll send Lorian to a private landing platform on the east side of the palace. Direct your pilot to land there.”  _

“And find Dooku, right?” 

There was an extended pause over the comm line.  _ “He won’t want to leave. You may have to . . . do something about that.”  _

“If you’re suggesting I try to fight him, I don’t think—”

_ “Nothing of the sort, no,”  _ Jesmyn interrupted.  _ “You may have to get creative, that’s all.”  _ Padmé heard them let out a deep sigh.  _ “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to . . .”  _ They trailed off into silence. 

“Of course, go,” Padmé said, clicking off her earpiece without waiting for a reply.  _ And whatever it is you’re gonna try to do, I hope it saves as much as it can. _ Rolling her thumb across the device, she thumbed through the available comm channels until she stumbled upon the one she wanted; with a click, the earpiece came back to life. 

“ _ What?!”  _

“Nice to hear your voice too, Liz,” Padmé muttered, shaking her head. As she talked, she jogged down the corridor—she wasn’t certain Dooku had even gone that direction, but moving through the palace was better than standing still. “Get your ass out of the clouds and down to the palace. We need an evac. Landing platform on the east side of the building. Set the _Dancer_ down there and wait.”  
_“For the Count?”_ the droid asked, her voice absent of the harsh buzz it had carried when she first answered the call.

The question gave Padmé pause. Obi-Wan, she supposed, was still in charge of this operation. She knew what his answer would be.  _ But Liz isn’t asking him,  _ she thought.  _ She’s asking you.  _

“No. Wait for me. And for Anakin and Obi-Wan.” The  _ Spice Dancer  _ was Padmé’s only ride off this moon. She wasn’t abandoning her search for Dooku—but if he refused to leave, she wouldn’t wasting her time trying to convince him. She’d leave him if she had to.  _ You aren’t sinking with this city.  _

_ Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,  _ a small voice at the back of her mind muttered.  _ Get to it. You’ve got a Count to find.  _

 

* * *

 

Most of Maul insisted to himself that he still had things under control. He’d sparred with more than one opponent on any number of occasions, and the last time he’d fought Kenobi and a partner he’d bested them both. It was not his destiny to die here, on a backwater moon, with his own troops firing at him.

Deeper down, though, an increasingly large part of him was beginning to realize he was in trouble.

Skywalker was relentless. He wielded his saber one-handed for speed, but the sheer physical power he was able to put behind his swings felt as if he were wielding a two-handed longsword, smashing down against Maul’s blocks with enough vibration to nearly jar his saber from his grip. Not only that, Maul could sense that the Jedi was holding  _ back _ —he was fighting almost distractedly, his inner self boiling with fear and rising panic.

Not that the Sith Lord could blame him. All around them, Stratum Apolune was coming undone.

In the distance, the Zabrak could see the city’s skyline changing as platforms slowly began to dip, lurching sideways as they lost power and the city’s residual momentum began to tow them. Distantly, Maul could hear the sound of hundreds and hundreds of screams—no doubt the psychic vibrations of the outermost platforms’ inhabitants as they realized exactly what was happening to them.

It brought him no small satisfaction to know that whatever the Jedi had planned to get the city moving, it had failed spectacularly. Even better, he could see the pair of them  _ knew _ this—Kenobi’s usual reserve had given way to a stricken rictus, as though he were processing every individual voice that cried out silently in terror. Skywalker was ashen, throat working up and down as though he were choking on the knowledge of what he’d done.

Maul’s satisfaction, however, was somewhat lessened by the knowledge that eventually the calamity would reach  _ their _ platform.

They were on a secondary pod now, as far as he could tell, still headed toward the central palace platform. Maul let the Jedi drive him there—one way or another, he would kill them and get to Dooku before gravity had reached them. If he plunged to crush depth, fine. But he was not going alone.

Kenobi was advancing along the Sith Lord’s left side, angling to get behind him. Maul quickstepped backward to avoid an overhand slash from Skywalker, then lashed out at Kenobi’s leg with a booted foot, calling on the dark side to add strength to the act. The general’s leg gave with a satisfying  _ crack _ —Maul didn’t know that anything had broken, but he’d damaged Kenobi enough that the Jedi cried out and fell back, limping. Maul gave a snarl and retreated, staff twirling, watching carefully as Skywalker sped toward him.

Before the younger Jedi could launch a renewed assault, Maul summoned a smile and gestured at the view behind his opponent. “‘Crush depth’ is what they call it, isn’t it? Look at all the people you’ve sent there.”

Skywalker flicked the briefest glance over his shoulder at a sky that was growing wider by the second as outer platforms sank. Above the howling wind, Maul could hear a low death-moan as the cables tethering the outermost areas of the city were pulled to the bursting point. As the connections broke, the platforms’ rate of descent increased—there was enough residual energy from emergency power supplies to keep them floating as they descended rather than plummeting downward, but it was merely giving the people inside time to think about their own demise.

_ They’ll be smothered alive,  _ the Sith Lord thought, driving the mental whisper at Skywalker like a dagger,  _ crushed in their hiding places like a can that’s been stepped on. And no matter what you do, it will  _ always _ have been your fault _ —

And Skywalker  _ moved. _

He’d still been meters away, but he closed the gap in a fraction of a second. Maul’s eyes widened in surprise, and as the Jedi’s lightsaber came crackling downward he brought his saberstaff to bear—

—half a second too slow.

Skywalker’s strike wasn’t caught by a beam of red plasma. Instead, with a shower of sparks, it drove cleanly through the hilt of Maul’s weapon, severing it in two.

Maul threw himself back, feeling the tip of the blue lightsaber pass close enough to singe his nose, letting the half of his weapon held in his left hand drop to avoid cutting himself. He turned his fall into a backward somersault, then wrenched himself upright, gripping his remaining length of hilt in both hands.

What he saw when he looked upward made his pulse spike.

The discarded half of his staff hadn’t gone clattering to the deck. Skywalker now held a bar of plasma in each hand, blue and crimson melding into one chiaroscuro, casting a livid glow against his face. The scar along his cheek was deformed by his clenched jaw, his eyes gleaming with utter fury.

Maul realized he’d been more right than he knew in what he’d told Kenobi. The dark side was roiling off the boy in waves of fear and fury and impotent grief.

Even as this thought crossed his mind, the Jedi was all over him.

The twin blades fell like hammers, crashing down on Maul’s upraised saber with reckless abandon. Skywalker was no longer dueling, he was  _ flailing _ , expending every bit of energy that was useless to save Stratum Apolune on the one target he had. Maul couldn’t parry, couldn’t block—the counterattacks he frantically whipped outward every time he had a fraction of a second to retaliate were batted aside without effort. Blue and red wove together until Maul could no longer see which blade was which—all he could do was retreat from the inferno, relying on the dark side to direct his body rather than trying to formulate a strategy.

And now, he saw in a brief gap through Skywalker’s hurricane of blows, Kenobi was back in the picture. With a dogged, implacable resolve, the general was limp-striding forward, emerald saber held forward like a torch. Maul sensed his worry for his apprentice, but could no longer take any pleasure in it.

Distantly, he felt a strike from Skywalker singe his arm. The blooming pain gave him strength enough to arrest both the boy’s blades with a wildly convoluted block-bind, then trace a ragged line down the Jedi’s left arm with the tip of his blade, but for all Skywalker reacted he may as well have been wearing steel armor under his clothing.

“Anakin!” Kenobi called. At first the boy didn’t hear, but when his master repeated the cry, it seemed to pull him back to reality—his strikes slowed from superhuman to merely ferocious speed, and Maul was able to riposte with enough finesse that only a wild parry from Skywalker redirected the blow.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to follow up on the opening. As Skywalker fell back a step, dawning awareness rising in his eyes, Maul realized what had elicited the general’s shout.

Their platform had begun to sink.


	55. Against Time

Had Jesmyn had days, months, to prepare for a city-wide collapse, they would have agonized over what to salvage, what to preserve, what to launch off in lifeboats. In a way, they reflected, they’d been given the gift of having no time to dither. They didn’t have days, they had minutes.

_ The cultural archives are digitized, at least, _ they thought— _ we’ll lose all the physical specimens, there’s no time to bundle up manuscripts for an evacuation, but all the electronic data I can just put on a drive.  _ With one hand, they prepped the city’s central computer to begin doing exactly that—with the other, they pounded away at the controls for the remainder of the city’s mining droids. These ones weren’t being sent out to war—they were being commandeered as lifeboats.

One person per droid—the Arkanian was routing most of the things to the palace landing pads to pick up staff. Once filled, the droids would leap from the platforms and hurtle downward, to remain until . . . well, until something, whether that was the Republic arriving to pick up the pieces or the Confederacy coming downward to mop up.

What operational shuttlecraft the palace had the droidmaster was directing on autopilot toward the platforms with the highest concentration of civilians. Part of them couldn’t help but picture the crushing wave of people who would try to shove their way aboard, wonder how many might be hurt or worse by their efforts, but there was no time to set up a procedure for boarding, to ferry palace guards outward to direct evacuation. This was the best that could be done. Those shuttles, too, would simply travel through the atmosphere, waiting; if they were sent into space they’d be shot down before they could so much as clear the gravity well.

The war room hologram calmly showed ring after concentric ring of platforms beginning to dip downward. The outermost ones were already half a kilometer sunk, and the pace of their descent was accelerating. A few moments prior, the display had helpfully asked if Jesmyn would like to see an exact countdown to the moment the structures would hit crush depth; they had viciously swiped the message away. The  _ when _ didn’t matter; the people within those platforms were already as good as dead.

Dimly, the droidsmith thought back to their parents; dead for several years now, both of them. A mercy, really. Picturing their mother and father on those platforms that were on their way to being crushed by gravity like a cheap bit of plastic might have been debilitating, but as it was, Stratum Apolune’s death was a curiously abstract thing. The bits and pieces of the city sinking into the murk were simply lines of light projected on a table; even the fact that the innermost row had started to go, that next up was the central platform itself, didn’t really seem  _ real _ . How could one quantify the death of a civilization, of a moon? It was impossible, mercifully so.

_ There is Qui-Gon, I suppose, _ Jesmyn thought, and there was a twinge of regret there, something hot and sharp and barbed—but really, they’d only known her for a few days, and there hadn’t been time for anything more than flirting and infatuation. The Jedi’s death would be a tragedy—her crooked smirk something the universe could never replace—but no more or less tragic than any of the other thousands of souls who were losing their lives even as the droidsmith wasted time thinking about this.

And then there was their own death to contend with.

They could always follow Lorian to Amidala’s ship, but maybe it was best if things ended here. Jesmyn’s life was Serenno—it was the entity crumbling into oblivion directly below them. Even if they survived, they would live for—what? They wouldn’t even be part of whatever government-in-exile was set up—Dooku himself had seen to that.

Maybe it was best to just sit here, after they’d done what work they could. Sip on a mug of caf. Go down with the ship.

At least their final view would be a pretty one.

 

* * *

 

Glowing tendrils danced at the forward edge of Sawshark Leader’s deflector shield—the whole squadron of Z-95s was descending into Serenno’s atmosphere again, their attempt to harass the Confederate fleet in orbit having been all but fruitless. 

It was the launch alert that had torn Karin and her squadron away from the space skirmish—shuttles were taking off from Stratum Apolune. An enemy retreat, perhaps? Whatever was going on down there, she knew the Sawsharks needed to be around for it. 

The flames around her shields subsided as Karin slowed her reentry—before she could catch her bearings, an enemy tri-fighter was streaking directly toward her. She swore loudly, banking her fighter hard to port. The sudden inversion twisted her stomach. Reaching out to adjust her inertial compensator, Karin gritted her teeth as the tight turn leveled off into something more comfortable. 

Behind her, she could just make out a bloom of fire and shrapnel—someone had shot down the attacking tri-fighter. “Nice shot,” she called out over the comm.

“ _ You’re welcome, _ ” came the reply—Roland. The Bith pilot’s voice carried evidence of a cheeky grin. 

As she arced her starfighter back toward the city and fell in formation with the rest of the squadron, Karin’s jaw dropped. They’d heard news on the comms of the city’s power issues, but from up in space it had been hard to picture just how bad things had gotten. 

The palace still stood tall, an upright floating spire in the center of the cluster of platforms. The rest of the city had practically capsized. Hovering skyscrapers tipped over at various angles—the farther away from the city center they were, the lower they had sunk into Serenno’s cloud-layered sky. Some, Karin knew, had disappeared entirely into the thick haze beneath the city. She froze for a moment, letting her fighter sail toward the sinking city on its own as she took the sight of it all in. 

_ “We got any more info on those shuttles?”  _ a voice popped up on the comm line. Karin shook her head to clear it—her wingmate, at least, was still focused on the task at hand. 

“ _ Well, Two,”  _ another voice began,  _ “it’s not a CIS retreat. The shuttles are broadcasting civilian ID codes.” _

_ Dammit,  _ Karin thought. She reached for her comm toggle. “Where do they think they’re going? If they clear the atmosphere, they’ll get vaporized. We have to keep them down here.” 

_ “Doing what?”  _ Beeko asked.  _ “They’ll get shot down if they just fly in circles around the city.” _

He was right, Karin knew. They had to take the civilian shuttles somewhere, but space was off the table, as was the sky—and staying grounded in Stratum Apolune was  _ definitely  _ not an option.

_ “What about that other platform?”  _

“What other platform, Five?” Karin asked.

“ _ He means the one by the jellyfish swarm,”  _ Roland piped up, answering on behalf of his Barabel companion. “ _ Where the clone troopers launched from. It’s not connected to the city, it might still be afloat.”  _

“Is it big enough?” 

_ “It was big enough for their troop transports,”  _ Rin Hatchko said.   _ “We will find a landing zone for the shuttles.”  _

Karin nodded. “This could work. Two Headhunters per shuttle. Keep the enemy fighters off them, and don’t let them land unless you’re absolutely certain that old platform is clear. Understood?” 

A chorus of “aye ayes” rang across the comm—confident everyone had gotten a chance to chime in, Karin keyed her transmitter to a private channel. 

“Hey, Shiiva?” 

_ “What’s up, boss?”  _ Sawshark Two replied. 

“Let everybody else handle the shuttles. You come with me. I want to check on  something.” 

Karin slammed her flight stick forward, angling her fighter down toward the city platforms. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her Twi’lek wingmate falling into place beside her. The pair of Z-95s shot past a skyscraper that had tipped over to a forty-five degree angle—furniture was falling out of the windows on the bottom side of the tower. 

“ _ What exactly are we checking on, Leader?”  _

“It’s been too long since we’ve heard from the general,” Karin said. “I’m worried he’s in trouble.” 

_ “You’re worried he’s not in the palace,”  _ Shiiva replied.  _ “He’d be in contact if he were.”  _

“Exactly.” Karin snapped her fighter into a roll, weaving between two skyscrapers that were collapsing onto each other. “I want to find him.” 

_ “Found him.”  _

Karin raised an eyebrow.  _ That was quick _ . Angling her fighter’s nose downward, she scanned the sinking skyline. From this distance, humans would normally have been hard to distinguish against the falling buildings. Fortunately, the human she was after seemed to be waving around a lightsaber. 

Glowing rods of red and green and blue danced along the angled surface of one of the city’s floating towers. Their owners seemed to run for several meters, pausing at erratic intervals to stop and exchange blows. Sparks and flashes of light signaled each time this happened. Karin narrowed her eyes. The situation seemed right. The colors were all wrong. 

“Where’d the green one come from?” she said aloud. “General Kenobi’s is blue.” 

_ “Moving in for a closer look,”  _ Shiiva said. Before Karin could object, her wingmate’s headhunter was streaking toward the trio of combatants. 

“Wait!” she called out after her fellow pilot, slamming her own throttle forward. As she stuck closely to Shiiva’s tail, she watched as the Twi’lek inverted her fighter and flew low over the clashing lightsabers. Once again reaching forward to adjust her inertial compensator, Karin did the same. 

As her fighter rolled into an upside-down flight position, Sawshark Leader barely felt the inversion. Looking “up” through her cockpit window, she watched as two men—who she was now certain were General Kenobi and Skywalker—traded lightsaber blows with a black and red tattooed Zabrak.  _ Maul.  _

“Well, it’s definitely them,” she muttered. “Guess the general keeps around an extra lightsaber or something, because—”

_ “Hang on!”  _ Shiiva interrupted.  _ “We’ve got more.”  _

“More of what?” 

_ “Lightsabers. Turn to heading 327.”  _

Glancing down at her fighter’s navigational display, Karin feathered the Headhunter’s rudder pedals to angle the ship to the northwest. Just as Shiiva had said, there were more lighstaber blades visible atop a falling building—one glowed a deep orange, the other a brilliant emerald, sinuous and curving in a way that was more like a whip than a sword. 

“No way,” Karin said under her breath. “I think that might be Qui-Gon Jinn.”   

“ _ The Interplanetary Outreach rep? She’s a goddamn Jedi?”  _

“Yeah.” Karin had been one of the few in Typhoon Division to catch wind of Jinn’s secret profession when General Kenobi had brought her aboard the  _ Coelacanth  _ with what turned out to be a lightsaber wound. Karin had assumed she wasn’t the sort of Jedi to do any sort of fighting—certainly not since her injury on Had Abbadon.

“ _ Doesn’t she walk with a cane? How’s she putting up a fight?”  _

“I have no idea.” The pair of Headhunters neared the toppling platform atop which Jinn and her mystery opponent clashed weapons—Karin watched with clenched teeth as the pair leapt from one platform to the next. Jinn, it seemed, was near her breaking point—the Jedi was shuffling backwards, propping herself up by her elbows and trading erratic blows with her opponent as she struggled to stand up. 

_ “We’ve gotta help her,”  _ Shiiva called out over the comm. “ _ Let’s get a shuttle over there to—” _

“No!” Karin interrupted. “No shuttles. They’re all being used to evacuate civilians; I can’t let a civilian ship get anywhere near this fight.” 

“ _ Well we have to do  _ something.  _ She’s gonna die down there if we don’t.”  _

Karin swore under her breath. Shiiva was right—they had to intervene somehow. But whoever Jinn was fighting posed a serious risk for any ship that got too close—be that a civilian shuttle or a military starfighter. Karin had heard the legends of what the enemies of the Jedi were capable of. If they were helping Jinn, they had to do it from a distance. 

_ “What’s the plan, boss?”  _ Shiiva asked when the silence on the line had stretched out too long.

“I’ll come up with something,” Karin answered. Her heart raced as she watched the injured Jedi bat away another strike of the orange lightsaber. Gripping her flight stick even harder than she had been, Sawshark Leader slammed the throttle forward. 

  
  
  


* * *

 

When the clone transports had touched down on a Stratum Apolune landing pad and disgorged their contents, sixty soldiers had stormed the city.

Now there were four.

The rest had all been killed—vaporized by laserfire from a passing gunship, pounded to paste by a rampaging mining droid, blown off a ledge by the city’s acceleration forward. No Trandoshans had survived—the last men standing were all human. They were tattered, running dry on ammunition, and had no contact with their higher-ups in orbit. The only reason they’d managed to survive at all, to stagger onto the inner rings of platforms before theirs went down, was that the war droids blocking their path had been recalled to evacuate key personnel.

The clones did, however, have one thing in their favor. They were severely pissed off.

So when Unit 4EB, his ice-white eyes staring through the scope mounted to his blaster rifle, spotted a seemingly unarmed old man in the distance, exiting what appeared to be the palace building—well. That couldn’t go unchecked.

The clone grunted wordlessly to his comrades-in-arms. As one, the other men swiveled, looked up, saw their target.

The old man stood still, scanning the horizon—looking for something or someone amid the platforms that were slowly tumbling to oblivion. Either he did not see the clones, or he was past caring—it didn’t particularly matter to them which was the case.

Only a narrow bridge separated them from the man. And while their platform had begun to dip, causing the metal to croan and bend, it had not yet broken.

Single file, the clones stepped onto the bridge. Gusts of wind tore at them, but where another being would have felt fear they had nothing but a complete determination to get to the other side and kill this man. Instead of balking, they held out their arms in ragged balance and moved, stepping as quickly as they could. One, two, three, four touched solid ground in quick succession.

4EB again looked through the scope of his rifle—the old man was at least half a mile off. He would surely see them before they arrived.

They didn’t care.

The clones tore across the platform’s surface with a speed born of wired exhaustion and sheer frustration and the constant underlying rage born of the imperfect chemistry of their brains. Boots slapped against tile faster, faster, faster, propelled by the desire to kill something—anything—before they themselves went down with the city.

When they’d closed about half the distance, 4EB noticed that the old man was no longer standing in place, scanning the horizon. He’d spotted them, was even now staring intently at them as they charged. And rather than retreating back into a building to take shelter, or ducking out of sight, he was just . . . considering things.

And then he started to move  _ toward _ them.

When the distance had closed enough that 4EB could see the old man’s face—severe, determined, not at all the face of an unarmed geriatric staring down four armed soldiers—the four clones raised the barrels of their rifles and fired. In between bursts of muzzle flash, the old man could be seen continuing his path—it looked as if he were barely altering course at all. And yet somehow their blaster shots sailed past him, superheated plasma driving into tile and stone and anything but its intended target. The old man strode as calmly as if he were simply being inconvenienced by a light drizzle of rain, cape fluttering in the breeze.

Another volley, and another, and still their target strode calmly toward them. And then, with the same effortless calm he’d demonstrated in his slow walk, he moved his right hand.

Two of 4EB’s comrades went flying, smashing against a building with an audible  _ crack _ and crumpling to the ground. He himself stumbled, almost falling to one knee, but wrenched himself upright and kept moving. Behind him, his remaining comrade continued to fire, but 4EB was smart enough to realize when a tactic was useless. With a snarl, he hurled his rifle to the ground and ripped a combat vibrodagger from his belt.

The old man did not seem to have anticipated this—he waved his hand again, his eyes widening just a hair, and 4EB heard his companion cry out. The blaster fire instantly ceased. But his target had taken too long in dealing with them—4EB was within a few meters of him now, close enough to see into his hawk’s eyes.

With a roar, the clone barreled into the old man, tackling him into the ground.

Whatever the geriatric’s powers were, they seemed not to extend to the physical—he made no motion to fight, didn’t grasp at 4EB with some sudden show of strength. Snarling in contempt, the clone drew back his vibroblade, tilted the old man’s head back to ram it home into his throat—

And then heard a sudden, solid  _ thunk _ .

Without quite knowing how he’d ended up there, 4EB found himself staring at the sky. Through vision that was suddenly, inexplicably cloudy, he spotted some small craft fleeing the city—the last of the ships to get clear, it was likely, before the sinking inner platforms’ landing pads became unusable. The sight was almost pretty.

There was a dull pain in his shoulder. He tried to turn his head, and the pain increased. With the last of his suddenly diminished strength, he reached for his shoulder, grasped something, and pulled. A thin, sharp metal rod emerged. It looked almost like . . . an arrow.

Before 4EB could ponder this further, a deep blackness overcame him. His eyelids felt inexplicably heavy.

He closed them, and let the breeze wash over his face.

 

* * *

 

Before Padmé could put aside her bow and offer Dooku a hand up, the Count was rising to his feet, looking at her with something approaching grudging respect. “You have my thanks, Madam Amidala.”

“Next time thank me by not running off,” she replied, fixing the old man with a glare and snapping the weapon back to its blade form. “We need to get you out of here. All the other platforms are going down, this one can’t hold out much longer. I have my ship picking up Lorian now, and it’ll come for us next—”

“I am not leaving,” the Count said firmly and sharply, his eyes flashing from grateful to sharp in an instant. “Not without the general and his companions.”

Nor had Padmé planned on it, deep down, but for Obi-Wan and Anakin and Qui-Gon to be Dooku’s main reason for running off struck her as  _ deeply _ weird. “We can swing by in the ship and pick them up, maybe buzz Maul and whoever else he brought with him for good measure—”

“ _ No _ , Madam Amidala. I must get to them now, and in person. I’ve no time to explain.”

With an effort not to raise her blade to his face again, Padmé ground out, “Look, if you need to find them, it’ll be easier to do it from the air. We have no way of knowing where—”

“Look.”

The Count had turned on his heel to face away from her, toward the outer perimeter of the main palace platform. The view was still not perfect, but—Padmé’s heart flopped weakly in her chest as she took it in—enough platforms full of people had dipped below them that it was largely unimpeded. Only the innermost ring of platforms was still airborne, and even it had started to dwindle, cables straining as they stretched to the breaking point.

In the distance, on the platform nearest them, Padmé thought she could just make out alternating flashes of light—red, blue, green. And beneath the wind’s howl, almost inaudible—was that humming plasma?

Biting down on her lip and gripping the hilt of her blade tight enough to hurt, she moved forward, positioning herself in front of Dooku. He regarded the distant pinpricks of color calmly, but Padmé didn’t need the Force to see that deep down, his perfect confidence was faltering. The Count wasn’t sure about whatever it was he was about to do. Not at all.

“Well,” she said aloud, “the last thing Obi-Wan told me to do was to keep you safe. So if you need to get to them, you’re sure as hell not going alone.”

Dooku flicked a glance at her, but it was almost an afterthought. He’d closed her off, Padmé thought.  _ Whatever it is he’s planning, that’s what’s taking up all of him right now. _ “If you wish,” he said aloud. “Thank you, Madam Amidala.”

He started forward, smoothly but quickly, the energy that had fueled his sprint from the throne room replaced by a steadier, gentler purpose.

Padmé, matching him step for step, looked to the skies and watched for Liz.


End file.
